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OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT  OF 


lo/ 


Calif orn; a  State  Library 

?pt  a 
OOk8 

cere, 
per- 
eLi- 
rthe 
'eof; 
avor 

01  unj-  raeroocr  or  omcer  01  me  legislature,  or  of  this 
State,  for  his  per  diem,  allowance,  or  salary,  he  shall  be 
-ui i-il'-il  that  such  member  or  ofQcer  has  returned  all 
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all  accounts  for  Injuring  such  books  or  otherwise. 

SET.  15.  Books  may  be  taken  from  the  Library  by  the 
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-.  --!•  ui  of  t  he  -ii  me.  :i  in  1  at  any  time  by  the  Governor  and 
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7\ 


ROUNDHEARTS. 


BY  THE  SAME  AUTHOR. 

A    NEW    AND    FASCINATINQ    NOVEL, 

RICHARD    VANDERMARCK 

1  VOL.  12MO.  CLOTH,  $1.50. 


ALSO/ NEW  EDITIONS,  UNIFORM- IN  STYLE  AND  PRICE, 

EACH  1  VOL.  12no,  $1.50  PER  VOL., 


RUTLEDGE. 

THE  SUTHERLANDS. 

ST.  PHILIP'S. 


.   FRANK  WARRINGTON. 
LOUIE'S  LAST  TERM. 
ROUNDHEARTS- 


A  ROSARY  FOR  LENT. 


ROUNDHEARTS 

«. 
_AND   OTHER  STORIES. 

7 


«it  THE  AUTHOR  OF 

•Rutledge,"  "  Sutherlands,"  "St  PhUip's,"  "  Frank  Warrington, 
"  Louie's  Last  Term  at  St  Mary's,"  etc. 


NEW  YORK : 

CHARLES    SCBIBNEE  &  COMPANY, 

654  BROADWAY. 

1871. 


Entered  according  to  Aft  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1866,  by 

GEO.  W.  CARLETON, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


BHTXBBD  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 

SIDNEY    8.    HARRIS, 
In  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress,  at  Washington. 


.  MASTER  SIDNEY  HARRIS. 

tjis  BOOK. 

CHRISTMAS  THE  FIRST. 


9327CI 


CONTENTS. 


Page 
L — ROUNDHEARTS. 

Chapter     I *      " 

Chapter    II 3' 

ChapterJII 52 

Chapter  IV.    .        .       .     .  .        •        •         63 

Chapter   V.        .       .        ...       .78 

II. — THE  CHRISTMAS  SISTER    .       .       •       •         85 

III. — THE  BOY  REGIMENT. 

Chapter    I »°9 

Chapter  II I21 

IV.— WILLY  COLLINS *    '3» 


R 


OUNDHEARTS. 


CHAPTER    I. 

RECESS. 

OUNDHEARTS?"    said 
Jerry,  interrogatively.* 

"  Yestround/iearts"said  Ap, 
emphatically,  as  he  swung 
himself  up  on  the  fence  beside 
Jerry,  and  balanced  his  dinner- 
kettle  on  the  gate-post,  having  jam- 
med the  cover  down  in  a  way  that  did  not 
Iqok  well  for  Jerry's  hopes  of  sharing  the- 

contents.     There  was  a  pause,  during  which 

t 

Ap  ate  steadily  and  comfortably  the  round 


1 2  ROU^DHEARTS. 

brown  cake,  with  its  scalloped  edges,  that 
he  held  in  his  hand,  and  during  which  Jerry 
looked  hungrily  on,  holding  no  cake  of  any 
kind  in  his  hand,  and  not  having  any  imme-    . 
diate  prospect  of  so  holding  any. 

Poor  little  Jerry!  It  was  nothing  new 
for*him  to  come  breakfastless  to  school ;  and 
dinnerless,  to  watch  the  other  children 
empty  their  well-filled  kettles,  hardly  throw- 
ing him  a  crumb.  His  lazy,  drunken  aunt 
was  seldom  out  of  bed  when  he  started  for 
school;  and  though  he  always  went  down 
into  the  cellar  and  tried  to  hunt  up  a  crust 
of  bread  or  a  scrap  of  meat  to  appease  the 
appetite  that  gnawed  within,  he  very  often 
had  no  better  luck  than,  we  are  told,  old 
Mother  Hubbard  had  on  that  renowned 
visit  of  hers  to  the  cupboard. 

Very  bare  was  the  cupboard   generally 
in  Chary  Wilson's  old  tumble-down  house, 


ROUNDHEARTS.  i  $ 

and  very  bare  was  the  cellar  where  little 
Jerry  hunted  hungrily  for  his  breakfast. 
Little  fire  there  was  in  winter,  and  little  food 
in  summer  in  that  house;  but  of  want,  and 
drunkenness,  and  profanity,  and  sin,  there 
was  plenty.  No  one  that  knew  the  house 
he  came  from  could  wonder  that  Jerry  .Wil- 
son looked  half-starved  and  haggard,  and 
that  his  clothes  hung  ragged  and  tattered 
about  him.  No  one  could  wonder  that  he 
was  at  the  foot  of  the  lowest  class  in4  school, 

and  that  he  was  the  butt  of  his  companions 

• 

for  his  stupidity  and  slowness.  Though  a 
great  many  of  these  ill-cared-for  and  igno- 
rant negro  children  who  formed  the  Laurel 
Hollow  School  had  need  of  compassion 
and  kindness,  none  had  so  great  need  of 
them  as  Jerry,  and  none  perhaps  received 
less.  There  was  something  so  dull  and 
lifeless  about  him  that  the  children  turned 


j^  ROUNDHEARTS. 

away  from  him;  and  his  intelligence  was 
not  of  an  order  to  attract  the  attention  of 
the  ladies  and  gentlemen  who  occasionally 
visited  the  school,  nor  enlist  the  interest  of 
those  who  had  the  teaching  of  him.  Poor 
little  Jerry ! 

Ap,  on  the  contrary,  was  quite  the  show- 
boy  of  the  school — bright,  quick-witted, 
and  intelligent.  His  mother  was  the  dairy- 
woman  at  Squire  Stoughtenborough's  farm; 
and  being  a  thrifty,  industrious  woman,  she 
managed  t£>  keep  this,  her  only  boy,  well 
dressed  and  respectable-looking,  and  her 
little  cottage  in  good  repair,  and  her  little 
garden  in  good  order.  She  had  great 
hopes  for  Absalom  (familiarly  known  as 
Ap),  and  often  told  him  she  meant  to  make 
something  worth  having  of  him ;  she  said 
he  should  have  as  much  learning  as  any  of 
the  white  boys,  and  as  good  a  chance  to 


ROUNDHEARTS.  15 

get  ahead  as  any  lad  in  the  village.  Ap 
took  this  in  with  much  intelligence;  and  it 
had  the  effect,  in  conjunction  with  his  nice 

clothes  and  smart  way  erf  learning  his  les- 

•» 
sons,   of  making  him   consider  himself  a 

very  important  young  person,  and  quite 
the  hero  of  the  colored  school. 

AJrs.  Rodman,  the  teacher,  had  perhaps 
a  different  view  of  the  matter. 

The  day  on  which  Ap  ate  his  round- 
heart  with  so  much  relish  on  the  gate-post, 
and  Jerry  looked  on  with  so  much  hun- 
gry longing,  was  a  bright,  pleasant,  sun- 
shiny Friday  in  July.  The  trees  and 
lilac-bushes  that  surrounded  the  little 
school-house  were  fresh  and  green,  for 
there  had  been  a  heavy  shower  the  night 
before,  and  nothing  in  all  the  country 
round  had  as  yet  begun  to  look  dried  and 
shrivelled.  The  fields  were  beautiful  to 


1 6  ROUNDHEAKTS. 

• 

look  at.     The  grass  on  the  plot  in  front  of 

•+ 

the  door  was  quite  as  well-preserved  as 
grass  in  the  neighborhood  of  school-houses 
ever  is.  Twenty*four  pair  of  emphatic 

• 

little  feet  trampling  over  it  did  not  tend  to 
encourage  it  in  an  erect  attitude;  it  lay 
down  irregularly  and  tangledly,  but  very 
submissively,  and  was  still  very  green.  4  At 
present,  Janey  Martin,  Clary  Sanders,  and 
Lucy  Richardson  were  rolling  over  it  and 
eating  their  bread  and  butter  in  quiet 
enjoyment  of  the  noonday  intermission. 

Mrs.  Rodman,  watching  them  all  from 
the  school-room  window,  saw  Jerry  look 
uneasily  at  them;  but  they  were  girls, 
and  girls  laugh  so  hatefully  when  they  do 
laugh  !  So  Jerry  didn't  ask  them  for  any 
of  their  bread  and  butter,  but  watched  Ap 
as  if  all  his  hopes  hung  on  him.  Ap's 
roundheart  disappeared  soon,  and  then 


ROUtWHEARTS.  \  J 

Ap  unscrewed  the  lid  of  his  kettle    and 
took  out  another;  Jerry  leaned  anxiously 

forward  and  looked  into    the1  kettle   too. 

.  f 

After  Ap  took  that  one -out  there  were  two 
more  whole  ones  left  in  it;  he  screwed  the 
lid  down  again  and  went  on  eating.  He 
couldn't  be  very  hungry,  Jerry  thought ;  he 
had  had  the  drumstick  and  wing  of  a 
chicken,  and  a  great  slice  of  apple-pie, 
before  he  began  on  the  roundhearts.  Just 
at  that  moment  several  of  the  boys  who 
were  playing  horse  down  the  road  shouted 
out  to  Ap  to  come  and  play ;  he  got  down 
from  the  gate,  and  cramming  the  round- 
heart  into  his  mouth,  turned  away  and 
was  going  towards  them  slowly,  when  Jerry 
said  hurriedly  and  huskily,  and  very  low : 
"  I  say,  Ap,  •  I  wish  you'd  let  me  have  a 
bite  o'  one  of  them ;  you  don't  want  'em  ' 
all,  you  know?" 


jg  SOUNDSEAPTS. 

"  Don't  I,  now?-  I'd  like  to  know  why  I 
.  don't !  And  if  I  didn't,  I  wouldn't  be  any 
ways  likely  to  give  'em  to  such  a  good- 
for-nothing  loafer  as  you  are.  Bring  your 
own  dinner  if  you're  hungry;  you  shan't 
have  any  o'  mine." 

Ap  called  this  out  in  a  loud  tone — so 
loud  indeed  that  the  girls  on  the  grass 
heard  it  very  plainly,  and  stopped  talking 
and  listened;  and  Jerry  dropped  his  eyes 
in  shame  and  turned  his  back  upon  them. 
The  boys  down  the  road  shouted  again 
for  Ap;  so  kicking  the  gate  open  with 
one  foot,  he  -dashed  through  it,  and  leaving 
his  kettle  still  hanging  on  the  post,  he 
ran  at  the  top  of  his  speed  towards  them. 
After  he  joined  them,  their  game  led  them 
still  further  away,  and  they  soon  disappeared" 
into  the  woods  that  skirted  the  road. 

Jerry  stood    perfectly   still    for  several 


R  0  UNDHEARTS:  I  g 

minutes  after  they  were  out  of  sight;  he 
was  so  wretched  he  did  not  want  to  follow 
them,  he  was  so  weak  and  faint  he  did 
not  want  to  run,  and  so  ashamed  and 
angry  he  did  not  want  to  go  near  any- 
body. After  a  while  he  sat  down  on 
the  grass  outside  the  fence,  and  began  to 
toss  the  pebbles  that  lay  within  his  reach 
from  the  path  into  the  road. 

Now,  he  hated  Ap;  he  thought  how 
ugly,  and  mean,  and  stingy  he  was ;  how, 
if  he  was  strong  and  big,  he  would  catch 
him  by  the  throat  and  throw  him  down, 
and  kick  him  so  !  Oh,  till  he  was  sore  all 
over.  Hateful,  mean,  stingy !  And  Jerry 
ground  his  teeth  and  clenched  his  fist 
"  I  hate  him ;  yes,  I  hate  him." 
For  a  long  while  he  lay  there,  tossing 
the  pebbles  or  pulling  up  the  grass  beside 
him ;  the  girls  had  finished  their  bread  and 


2O  ROUNDHEARTS. 

• 

butter,  and  had  gone  off  to  play;  he  heard 
their  merry  laughing  voices  half-way  up 
the  hill  behind  the  school-house ;  the  boys 
were  still  in  the  woods  down  the  road ;  he 
was  quite  alone.  The  wicked  thoughts  of 
anger  and  revenge  that  had  kept  him  com- 
pany since  Ap's  insulting  answer  did  not 
go  away;  but  other  wicked  thoughts  crept 
in  to  keep  them  company. 

The  kettle  hung  within  his  reach.  What 
was  to  hinder  him  from  taking  those  two 
cakes  that  were  in  it  ?  Who  would  know 

• 

he  did  it  ?  If  Ap  accused  him,  who  could 
prove  he  had  done  it  ?  There  was  nobody 
within  sight;  nobody  could  prove  it ;  they 
might  think  the  girls  had  done  it ;  or  very 
likely  Ap  would  never  miss  them. 

And  he  was  so  hungry !  The  smell  of 
the  apple-pie  had  driven  him  almost  wild , 
the  sight  of  the  roundhearts  had  made  him 


ROUNDHEA.RTS.  2 1 

almost  sick  with  longing.  He  shut  his 
eyes  and  turned  his  face  down  on  the 
•grass,  but  he  couldn't  get  rid  of  the 
thought,  he  couldn't  get  the  roundhearts 
out  of  his  eyes;  turn  whichever  way  he 
would,  shut  them  ever  so  tight,  the  nice, 
soft,  smooth,  brown  cakes  would  be  before 
him — the  craving,  gnawing'  hunger  would 
be  clamoring  within. 

He  must ;  he  would ;  he  didn't  care. 
He  raised  up  on  his  elbow  and  looked 
stealthily  around.  All  was  so  still ;  there 
wasn't  a  soul  in  sight ;  nobody  would 

know — nobody  would  ever  know. 

. 
Just  at  that  moment  something .  stirred 

the  lilac-bushes  behind  him;  he  gave  a 
violent  start,  and  looked  guiltily  around. 
He  felt  hot  with  shame  when  he  saw  what 
it  was ;  it  was  only  Moll,  the  half-grown 
black-and-white  cat,  that  had  been  straying 


22  EOUNDHEAETS. 

around  the  Hollow  all  summer  pelted  by 
the  boys,  kicked  from  the  doors  by  the 
women,  teased  and  chased  and  mauled  by 
the  girls.  Jerry  alone  of  all  the  children 
never  had  worried  or  pelted  her ;  she  had 
often  come  mewing  hungrily  to  the  door 
at  night,  and  he  had  let  her  quietly  in,  and 
kept  her  out  of  Chary's  way,  and  let  her 
lick  the  unwashed  frying-pan  in  the  chim- 
ney-corner, and  dig  greedily  among  the 
pile  of  clam-shells  and  fish-bones  that  lay 
upon  the  hearth ;  and  though  such  scraps 
as  were  to.  be  found  there,  and  an  occa- 
sional cold  potato,  and  the  freedom  of  the 

• 

cellar,  were  the  only  privileges  that  a  resi- 
dence at  Chary  Wilson's  could  afford  her, 
she  seemed  inclined  -to  embrace  them,  and, 
as  far  as  she  could  be  said  to  live  any- 
where, lived  there.  She  prowled  around 
the  Hollow  all  day,  however,  and  nobody 


ROUNDHEARTS.  23 

was  ever  surprised-  to  see  her  anywhere ; 
so,  after  the  first  moment,  Jerry  was  rjot 
surprised  to  see  her  at  his  side. 

Poor  Moll!  Was  there  ever  such  a 
dismal  ash-cat  before !  She  was  nearly  out 
of  kittenhbod,  "  tall  for  her  age,"  gaunt 
and  meagre,  with  a  hollow  sinking  in 
about  her  sides  that  made  one  faint  to  look 
at  her ;  and  a  hungry,  wistful  expression  in 
her  eyes  that  made  one  positively  uncom- 
fortable. All  the  black  in  her  coat  looked 
rusty  and  dirty;  and  for  the  white,  there 
is  no  chance  of  conveying  its  griminess. 
But  Jerry  loved  this  cat.  He  liked  to 
have  her .  paws  on  his  arm  when  he  lay 
curled  up  o.n  his  heap  of  straw  in  the  gar- 
ret at  night,  and  to  feel  the  regular  motion 
of  her  claws  as  she  opened  and  shut  them 
on  his  sleeve,  purring  all  the  while.  Jerry 
often  wondered  if  she  purred  all  night. 


24  ROUNDHEARTS. 

He  left  her  purring  when  he  went  to  sleep ; 

and  when  he  woke  up  in  the  morning,  he 

%    » 
always  found  her  watching  him  and  purr-  • 

ing  still. 

"  Poor  old  Moll ! "  he  said,  looking  down 
at  her,  and  forgetting  for  a  moment  all 
about  the  roundhearts ;  "  Poor  old  Moll ! " 

She  purred  intelligently  and  affection- 
ately, and  walked  up  and  down  beside  him, 
rubbing  herself  against  his  legs,  and  looking 
up  into  his  face  with  such  a  wistful  look  in 
her  great  unhappy  eyes. 

"  Oh,  she's  hungry !  I  know — poor  puss 
— I  know,"  and  the  tears  rushed  into  his 
eyes.  Yes,  he  knew  indeed.  There  was  a 
sympathy  between  him  and  Moll  that  there 
was  between  him  and  no  one  else,  human 
or  feline.  That  rush  of  tears  weakened  the 
strength  of  the  wicked  thoughts.  -  He  began 
to  know  they  were  wicked;  he  began  to 


ROUNDHEARTS.  2  5 

remember  who  it  was  that  put  wicked 
thoughts  in  children's  minds ;  he,  remem- 
bered what  his  teacher  had  said  about  the 
way  to  get  rid  of  them.  m  He  did  not  know 
the  Lord's  Prayer  very  well ;  he  blundered 
a  good  deal  in  it  when  it  came  round  to 
him  in  the  Catechism,  partly  because  he 
did  not  understand  the  words  .it  was  made 
of,  partly  because  all  the  children  were 
looking  at  him ;  but  the  sense  of  the  latter 
part  of  it  he  had  somehow  got  into  his 
head.  It  was  only  'yesterday  that  Mrs. 
Rodman  had  made  him  stand  by  her  desk 
and  repeat  it  after  her,  and  had  told  him 
what  "  temptation  "  meant,  and  what  it  was 
to  "deliver,"  and  what  "evil"  was.  She 
had  put  it  all  into  very  simple  words,  and 
had  said  in  conclusion : 

"Jerry,  that's  the  prayer  you  must  say 
when  you  feel  wicked — when  you  want  to 


26  EOUNDHEABTS. 

do  anything  bad.  It  is  the  devil  tries  to 
make  you  naughty ;  but  God  will  help  you 
lo  be  good  if  you  say  that  prayer^with  all 
your  heart." 

So  now  that  Jerry,  lay  there  with  his 
hand  on  poor  Moll's  head,  and  the  sense 
of  the  wickedness  he  wanted  to  do  so 
strong  in  his  heart,  he  vaguely  realized  that 
this  was  temptation — that  this  was  a  time 
to  pray.  Not  understanding  them  exactly — 
not  fully  "knowing  what  it  all  meant — he 
said  the  words  over*  half  aloud,  only  wish- 
ing to  do  right;  dimly  hoping  that  God 
knew  all  about  his  trouble,  and  would  help  . 
him  if  he  said  them.  Educated  and  intel- 
ligent children  can  hardly  understand  the 
uncertainty  and  mistiness  of  poor  Jerry's 
ideas  of  right  and  wrong— the  simplicity  of 
his  fears  of  God  and  trust  in  Him.  Nothing 
that  other  children  learn  had  got  into  his 


R  0  UNDHEARTS.  2  7 

blundering,  stupid,  darkened  little  soul,  but 
the  one  ray  of  light  that  came  from  know- 
ing that  God  loved  him,  and  wouldn't  let 
anything  bad  happen  to  him  as  long  as  he 
was  good  and  did  what  was  right.  So  just 
to  do  right  was  what  Jerry  wanted  to  do, 
and  you  may  be  sure  God  helped  him, 
through  all  his  ignorance  and  stupidity. 

"  I  won't ;  no,  no,  Moll,  I  won't,"  he  said. 
"  I  know  it's  bad.  I  don't  mean  to.  Come, 
let's  go  away,  Moll." 

And  grasping  her  very  tightly  under  his 
arm,  he  got  up  and  walked  hurriedly  away, 
with  an  expression  almost  of  fear  as  he 
glanced  back  for  an  instant  at  the  shiny  tin 
kettle  hanging  on  the  gate-post.  He  gave 
Moll  such  a  clutch,  as  he  caught  the  glitter 
of  it  in  the  sunshine,  -that  the  poor  cat 
uttered  an  involuntary  mew  of  pain  that 
brought  Jerry  to  his  senses,  and  he  put  her 


28  ROUNDHEARTS. 

down  on  the  ground  quickly,  and  in  an 
apologetic  manner.  She  seemed  to  be 
afraid  she'd  hurt  his  feelings,  for-  she  rubbed 
herself  against  his  legs  affectionately,  and 
followed  him  closely  as  he  went  on. 

He  had  just  seated  himself  at  the 
school-house  door  when  the  bell^  rang. 
He  was  very  glad  of  it;  it  put  the  idea 
of  the  roundhearts  among  the  impossi- 
bilities, and  he  went  into  the  school-room 
and  took  his  seat  at  his  end  of  the  long 
hard  bench  the  youngest  class  occupied, 
with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

Friday  afternoon  was  an  exciting  time 
in  the  Laurel  Hollow  School;  "the  ladies" 
always  came  then,  and  about  three  o'clock 
Mrs.  Rodman  arranged  them  in  two  long 
rows  on  each  side  of  the  room ;  where,  with 
hands  folded,  -  feet  literally  "  toeing  the 
mark,"  and  sharp  black  eyes  rolling  inqui- 


.      ROUNDHEARTS.  29 

sitively  about,  contrasting  oddly  with  the 
forced  repose  of  the  bodies  they  illumi- 
nated, the  young  brigade  awaited  the 
arrival  of  "  the  ladies."  Mrs.  Rodman,  on 
this  afternoon,  perceiving  an  unusually  un- 
governable tendency  among  them,  walked 
authoritatively  up  and  down  the  line,  a 
slim  little  whip  in  her  hand,  with  a  view  to 
preserving  the  order  she  prided  herself 
upon,  until  the  arrival  of  the  ladies.  Not 
all  the  terrors  of  the  Inquisition,  however, 
could  have  prevented  the  smothered  but 
universal  exclamation  of,  "  Here  they 
come ! "  as  a  carriage  stopped  at  the 
gate. 

"  Children,  will  you  be  quiet  ? "  And 
Mrs.  Rodman  waved  her  whip  signifi- 
cantly, at  which  they  all  subsided  into 
the  quiet  recommended;  and  you  might 
have  heard  the  smallest  pin  ever  manu- 


30  ROUNDHEARTS. 

factured  fall  upon  the  thickest  carpet  ever 
woven,  as  Mrs.  Danforth  came  up  the 
path  to  the  school-room  door. 


ROVNDHEARTS. 


•  CHAPTER   II. 

POOR     MOLL. 

'HE  lady's  plan  was  gene- 
rally to  have  a  sort  of 
review  of  the  lessons  of 
the  week,  examining  the 
children  upon  what  they  had  learn- 
ed since  she  was  there  last ;  then 
she  would  hear  them"  say  the  Cate- 
chism; and  lastly,  the  hymns  they  knew 
from  the  younger  ones,  and  the  Collect  for 
the  week  from  the  older.  It  is  needless 
to  say  the  children  tried  to  do  their  best, 
and  from  nine  o'clock  Monday  morning 
looked  forward  with  anxiety  to  Friday 


32  ROUNDHEARTS. 

afternoon.  The  rewards,  of  which  this 
very  delightful  lady  was  extremely  lavish, 
.were  not  the  sole  causes  of  their  assiduity, 
however.  She  was  so  kind  and  so  good, 
and  looked  so  pretty  in  her  soft  muslin 

o 

dress,  and  straw-bonnet  with  its  marvellous 
bright  ribbons,  and  came  in  such  a  fine 
carriage,  and  drove  away  so  fast,  while 
they  all  stood  watching  her,  that  it  is  my 
belief,  if  she  had  not  given  any  rewards 
more  tangible  than  that  very  sweet  smile 
of  hers,  and  some  gentle  words  of  praise, 
they  would  have  tried  very  hard  to  win 
them  and  to  please  her. 

Occasionally  she  brought  some  of  her 
own  children  with  her;  and  on  this  occasion 
a  small  boy,  keeping  tight  hold  of  her 
dress,  and  showing  a  half-developed  inten- 
tion of  hiding  himself  in  its  folds  from  all 
those  black  eyes,  followed  her.  Indeed, 


ROUNDHEARTS.  33 

little  Larry  was  as  much  afraid  of  the 
children  as  the  children  were  afraid  of  him, 
and  very  often  came,  and  went  away,  with- 
out exchanging  anything  more  familiar 
with  tthem  than  a  great  many  shy  and 
curious  glances. 

After  the  usual  examination,  in  which 
Ap  distinguished  himself  by  rattling  off  all 
the  weights  and  measures  in  the  table- 
book  two  degrees  faster  than  usual,  and  in 
which  poor  Jerry  did  himself  more  dis- 
credit than  ever  before  by  his  hopeless 
stupidity  and  alarm,  the  lady  took  her  little 
prayer-book  out  of  her-  pocket,  and  began 
to  hear  them  say  the  catechism.  Very 
well  they  knew  it,  certainly,  as  far  as  the 
mere  words  went ;  but  whether  they  had  at 
all  grasped  the  ideas  that  the  words  con- 
veyed, seemed  a  question  in  her  mind  just 
then,  for  she  asked  them  very  searching 

2* 


34  ROUNDREARTS. 

and  simple  things  about  the  Command- 
ments, and  did  not  get  very  satisfactory 
replies  in  all  cases.  Then  she  asked  them 
to  say  the  Lord's  Prayer.  Oh,  of  course 
they  all  knew  that,  and  they  all  knew 
"  what  they  desired  of  God  in  this  prayer ;" 
at  least  they  all  said  it  fast  enough. 

Indeed,  the  older  ones  answered  tolera- 
bly well  most  of  the  questions  she  put 
them  about  this  [  Mrs.  Rodman  had  taken 
an  infinite  amount  of  pains  with  them,  and 
they  had  at  least  reaped  a  little  benefit 
from  her  labors.  But  it  happened  that 
when  she  said,  "  Now,  children,  you  tell 
me  you  pray  God  '  that  it  will  please  Him 
to  save  and  defend  you  in  all  dangers  both 
of  soul  and  body,  and  that  He  will  keep 
you  from  all  sin  and  wickedness,  and  from 
your  spiritual  enemies,  and  from  everlast- 
ing death;'  what  words  of  the  Lord's 


ROUNDHEARTS.  35 

Prayer  mean  this,  do  you  say  ?  there 
was  an  uncertain  pause ;  no  one  seemed 
to  know. 

She  looked  around  inquiringly.  "  Why, 
children,  can't  you  tell  me  that  ?  Can't  you 
tell  me  what  words  you  must  say  when  any 
danger,  either  of  soul  or  body,  frightens 
you  ;  when  you  want  to  do  something  bad ; 
when  the  devil  is  tempting  you  ?  Think 

• 

a  minute ;  can't  any  of  you  tell  me  what 
words  our  Lord  taught  His  people  to 
say?" 

Another,  pause,  during  which  Ap  and 
the  bigger  boys  looked  rather  ashamed,  and 
the  little  ones  very  much"  puzzled.  But 
glancing  down  the  double  row  of  unsatis- 
factory faces,  the  lady  caught  a  gleam  of 
something  like  intelligence  on  Jerry's,  and 
an  eager,  stammering  movement  of  his  lips. 

"  Well,  my  little  boy,  speak.     What  is  it? " 


36  ROUNDHEARTS. 

"  Lead  us  not  into  temptation,  but— but 
— deliver  us  from  evil,"  he  repeated  huskily 
and  slow. 

"  That's  right,"  she  said  with  a  quiet 
smile  of  approbation.  She  saw  he  was 
miserably  frightened  at  the  sound  of  his 
own  voice  and  at  the  wondering  eyes  turned 
upon  him,  so  she  did  not  ask  him  any 
more  questions  or  take  any  further  notice 
of  him,  but'she  did  not  lose  sight  of  or  for- 
get him  ;  there  was  something  in  his  face 
that  had  struck  her  with  much  pity. 

The  picture  reward-card,  of  course,  be- 
longed to  Ap;  he  had  had  decidedly  the 
best  lessons ;  but  just  as  she  was  going,  the 
lady  called  Jerry  to  her,  and  opening  her 
purse,  gave  him  a  five-cent  piece,  with  some 
kind  words  of  commendation.  Poor  Jerry 
stood  holding  the  bright  little  coin  in  his 
hand,  looking  hopelessly  dull  and  ungrateful- 


ROUNDHEARTS,  37 

"Jerry!"  called  out  Mrs.  Rodman,  very 
much  shocked;  "  why  don't  you  say  '  thank 
you?'" 

"  Make  a  bow,  stupid,"  whispered  the 
envious  group  of  children  in  the  rear,  and 
Ap  tried  to  push  him  forward. 

.But  Jerryj  perfectly  stunned  with  it  all, 
could  neither  command  a  bow  nor  a  "  thank 
you." 

"  Oh,  no  matter  this  time,"  said  the  lady, 
kindly.  "  He  means  *  thank  you,'  I  know. 

The  children  gathered  round  him  in  an 
eager  group,  almost  too  much  engrossed 
with  his  good  fortune  to  watch  the  carriage 
drive  away;  which  it  did,  however,  very 
briskly.  Jerry  was  entirely  unsatisfactory 
upon  the  question  of  how  he  was  going  to 
spend  it,  and  put  the  hand  that  held  it 
tight  in  his  trousers'  pocket,  and  snubbed 
all  invitations  to  go  shares  with  sturdy  re- ' 


2 8  ROUNDHEARTS.    • 

solution.  For  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
very  distinctly  what  to  do',  with  his  five- 
pence;  half  of  it  in  roundhearts,  right 
straight  away,  and  half  of  it  for  something 
to  eat  to-morrow  morning — a  little  bit  of 
taffy  perhaps,  some  peanuts,  and  a  bolivar. 
He  had  never  had  more  than  a  cent  at  a 
time  in  all  his  life  before,  and  the  times  in 
which  he  had  possessed  even  that  sum  he 
could  count  up  very  shortly ;  so  it  was  no 
wonder  he  felt  giddy  and  almost  sick  with 
excitement.  It  was  his  afternoon  for  clear- 
ing up  the  school-room,  however,  so  he  had 
to  tie  the  fivepence  up  in  a  corner  of  the 
grey  rag  he  called  his  pocket-handkerchief, 
and  stuff  it  very  low  down  in  his  pocket, 
and  take  the  broom  and  go  to  work.  Mrs. 
Rodman  bade  him  good-by  kindly,  and 
went  away;  and  so,  after  a  while,  all  the 
children  did,  and  he  was  left  alone. 


ROUNDHEARTS.  39  •> 

The  school-room  was  generally  lamen- 
tably dirty  on  Friday  afternoon,  and  poor 
Jerry  was  nearly  stifled  with  the  clouds  of 
dust  that  rose  from  the  application  of  his 
broom.  He  was  in  a  great  hurry  to  be  off 
to  the  village  for  his  roundhearts  (which  is 
not  to  be  wondered  at,  considering  he  had 
not  had  a  mouthful  of  food  that  day),  but 
he  had  a  general  idea  of  his  duty  in 
regard  to  anything  he  had  been  entrusted 
with,  and  he  knew  Ihe  school-house  had 
been  left  in  his  charge ;  so  he  „  worked 
away  patiently  at  it,  swept  it  as  well  as  he 
could,  and  put  the  benches  back  in  their 
places,  then  dusted  it  rather  clumsily,  but 
very  faithfully ;  and  at  the  end  of  his  per- 
formances put  away  broom  .  and  duster, 
took  his  tattered  cap  from  its  peg,  shut 
down  the  windows,  and  shut  and  locked 
the  door.  He  ran  around  to  Aunt  Sally's, 


40  ROUNDHEARTS. 

where  the  key  was  kept,  deposited  it,  and 
then  made  a  "straight  wake"  for  the  vil- 
lage. 

"  Cross  lots,"  of  course,  his  route  lay ; 
the  first  lot  was  a  ploughed  one,  and  ter- 
ribly stumbling  work  his  poor  weak  knees 
made  of  it ;  but  then  the  roundhearts  ahead 
kept  his  courage  up  till  he  had  crossed  it 
A  tangled  -hedge  of  cat-brier  and  alder- 
bushes  separated  him  from  the  next  field, 
and  he  stooped  down  on  his  hands  and 
knees  to  try  to  find  a  place  to  crawl 
through,  when  the  sound  of  voices  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  hedge  made  him  stop 
a  moment  and  listen,  and  then,  as  the 
meaning  of  the  talking  reached  him,  start 
up  in  anger  and  alarm. 

The  first  voice  he  heard  was  Moll's,  in  a 
miserable,  tortured,  uncomfortable  whine, 
as  if  some  one  were  holding  her  very  hard. 


BO  UNDHEARTS.  4 1 

The  second  voice  was  Ap's,  and  he  was 
saying  low :  "  The  shingle's  too  long  by  a 
couple  of  inches  ;  it'll  keep  her  too  far  out 
of  the  water.  By  George,  I  bet  she'll  drift 
a  mile  before  she  sinks." 

"  Don't  lash  her  down  too  tight,"  Bill 
Watson  whispered  ;  "  she  can't  kick  if  you 
do,  and  it's  half  the  fun  to  see  her  kick  and 
make  the  shingle  go  up  and  down." 

"  Give  me  some  more  cord,"  Ap  said. 
"  I'm  sort  of  'fraid  of  this,  it's  so '  thin. 
Double  the  next ;  there — that's  better. 
Jingo !  '  how  strong,  she  is !  Ton  my 
word  it's  all  I  can  do  to  hold  her." 

"  How  are  you  going  to  get  her  down  to 
the  shore  without  the  folks  in  the  village 
seeing  us  ?  "  asked  Dick  Slossom. 

"  Go  along  through  the  swamp  till  we 
come  to  Walton's  hill,  then  cut  across  the 
road  and  along  through  the  edge  of  the 


42  ROUNDHEAKTS. 

church-yard  till  we  come  to  the  creek,  and 
so  on  down  to  the  beach.  Nobody '11  see, 
if  we  hurry." 

As  quickly  as  all  this  got  through  poor 
Jerry's  bewildered  head,  he  started  up  and 
bolted  head  foremost  through  the  briers, 
appearing  most  unexpectedly  to  the  asto- 
nished youths  on  the  other  side,  and 
making  them,  for  one  instant,  suspend 
their  brutal  business. 

"  What  are  you  about  ?  I  say,  put 
Moll  down;  put  her  down  right  off!"  he 
gasped  as  soon  as  he  could  get  his  breath. 
There  was  something  in  his  determined, 
resolute  manner  that  for  a  moment  influ- 
enced the  boys ;  no  one  spoke,  and  they 
looked  at  him,  till  Ap,  with  a  coarse  laugh, 
*  helped  them  back  to  their  accustomed  in- 
solence and  ease.  Indeed  there  was  some- 
thing half-ludicrous  in  the  figure  of  the 


ROUNDHEARTS.  43 

lean,  tattered  urchin,  as  he  stood  facing  the 
group  of  stout  lads  a  head  taller  than  he, 
and  a  good  many  times  as  strong.  But 
Jerry  never  had  a  thought  of  fear;  he 
would  have  fought  them  all  in  a  minute; 
the  sight  of  poor  Moll  lying  there  bound 
to  the  shingle,  lashing  her  tail  about  with 
such  certain  significance  of  pain,  and  look- 
ing up  at  him  with  such  a  troubled  look, 
made  him  fierce;  he  would  kill  them  if 
they  didn't  let  her  go ;  he  would ;  he  didn't 
care 

"  Oh  ho !  I'd  like  to  see  you  touch 
her ! "  cried  Ap.  "  I'd  like  to  know  how 
you're  going  to  make  us  let  her  go ! " 

"  Like  as  not  he's  going  to  thrash  us  all 
round,"  laughed  Bill. 

"  Don't  hit  me  hard,"  cried  Dick,  a  big' 
lazy  negro  about  thirteen  years  old.  "  I'm 
so  little  you  oughtn't  to  hurt  me." 


44 


ROUNDHEARTS. 


"  I  don't  care  whether  you're  little  or 
big,"  stammered  Jerry,  his  fierce  indigna- 
tion almost  choking  him.  "  I  don't  care 
anything  about  you ;  but  you've  got  to  let 
her  go ;  you  shall — you  shall " 

"  How're  you  going  to  make  us,  that's 
all  ? "  said  Ap,  doggedly,  stooping  down  to 
go  on  with  his  cruel  work. 

"  I'll  show  you  how ! "  cried  Jerry,  doub- 
ling up  his  fist  and  dashing  at  him;  but 
the  other  boys  caught  at  him,  and  held 
him  by  the  arms. 

"  Behave  yourself,  you  little  fool ! " — and 
Dick  shook  him  by  the  shoulders  with 
considerable  vehemence.  "  Keep  quiet,  or 
I'll  give  it  to  you." 

"  Let  go  my  arm !  you  great  big  coward ; 
let  go !  I  say,"  and  Jerry  twisted  his  head 
round  quickly,  and  snapped  at  his  oppres- 
sor's hand  with  his  teeth.  Dick  uttered  a 


JtOUNDHEARTS.  45 

yell  of  pain,  and  relaxed  his  grasp,  giving 
him  with  the  other  hand  a  heavy  blow'  on 
the  ear. 

"Try  that  again,  and  I'll  show  you!"  he 
muttered,  rubbing  his  hand  and  turning 
away. 

"  I'll  show  you,  if  you  don't  let  Moll  go," 
cried  Jerry,  beside  himself  with  passion. 

"  Keep  off!  keep  off!  you  rascal !"  howled 
Ap,  as  Jerry's  clumsy  boot  struck  him  a 
heavy  kick, — and  by  a  desperate  exertion 
of  strength  the  enraged  boy  freed  himself 
from  Bill's  grasp,  and  sprang  upon  the 
kneeling  Ap,  and  possessed  himself  of  the 
tortured  cat,  and  started  madly  across  the 
field,  before  any  one  of  the  trio  knew  what 
he  was  about.  Of  course,  his  escape  was 
hopeless.  As  soon  as  he  started  to  run, 
his  miserable  weak  limbs  began  to  fail  him, 
and  in  a  moment  the  boys  surrounded  him. 


46  mUNDHEARTS. 

Whether  Bill  Watson  was  more  temperate 
because  he  had  had  no  bite  or  kick,  or 
whether  he  was  by  nature  more  humane, 
or,  possibly,  more  avaricious,  it  is  unimpor- 
tant to  decide.  At  any  rate,  he  held  back 
the  violently-minded  Ap,  as  he  was  plung- 
ing after  Jerry,  and,  laying  the  other  hand 
on  that  poor  victim's  shoulder,  said,  con- 
ciliatingly — 

"  Hold  on,  boys !  Just  stop  a  minute ! 
What's  the  use  o'  all  this  muss  ?  If  Jerry's 
so  mighty  fond  o'  Moll,  he  can  have  her, 
as  long  as  he's  a  mind  to  pay  us  for  givin' 
of  her  up.  He's  got  a  five-cent  piece. 
That's  as  much  as  '11  make  up  for  the  loss 
of  the  fun  ;  ain't  it,  boys  ?" 

A  change  was  apparent  in  the  faces  of 
the  boys.  Well,  yes;  they  guessed  it 
would  do.  They  guessed  they'd  give  her 
up  to  Jerry  for  that.  He  might  hand  over 


ROUNDHEARTS.  47 

the  fivepence.  "No,  that  I  won't,"  he 
cried  indignantly.  "  You  great  big  bullies, 
you  shan't  get  my  money  that  way." 

And  he  struggled  fiercely  to  get  off. 
But  there  was  no  use,  the  poor  lad  soon 
saw.  Either  his  precious  little  half-dime 
must  be  surrendered,  or  poor  Moll  must  be 
given  up  to  torture  and  death.  "  I  can't — 
no,  I  can't,"  he  thought  miserably;  "the 
roundhearts  and  all — and  I'm  so  hungry. 
Oh,  the  stingy  fellows !  They  sharit  have 
it ! "  And  he  again  wrestled  desperately  to 
release  himself  and  his  suffering  favorite. 
But  all  to  no  purpose;  one  or  the  other 
•  they  would  have.  And  at  last  the  thought 
of  poor  drowning  Moll,  and  the  sight  of  her 
present  pitiful  distress,  overcame  the  pain 
of  losing  his  treasure ;  and  with  a  choking 
feeling  in  his  throat,  and  a  shaking  'uncer- 
tainty in  his  hands,  he  took  the  rag  out  of 


48  ROUNDHEARTS. 

his  pocket  and  undid  the  corner  of  it,  while 
Ap  and  Bill,  whispering  together,  cut  the 
string  that  bound  Moll  to  the  board,  and 
took  her  up ;  and  when  Jerry,  with  an  un- 
steady lip,  and  eyes  that  looked  very  anx- 
iously another  way,  put  the  coin  into  Dick's 
hand,  Bill  threw  down  Moll  upon  the 
ground,  and  clapping  his  hands  together, 
shouted,  "  Scat,  scat." 

Moll  darted  under  the  hedge,  and  disap- 
peared. Bill  gave  Ap  a  wink,  and  Ap  dis- 
appeared too.  But  this  Jerry  did  not  no- 
tice. His  heart  was  too  heavy  to  notice 
anything,  now  the  effort  was  made,  and 
all  his  great  pleasure  given  up.  He  wasn't 
sorry  he'd  done  it.  He  knew  it  was  right, 
but  it  was  dreadfully  hard.  He  was  too 
sick  and  miserable  to  cry,  so  he  turned  his 
back  upon  the  village  for  which  he  had 
started  in  such  good  hopes  a  quarter  of  an 


EOUNDHEARTS.  40 

» 

hour  before,  and  dragged  slowly  and  wearily 
back  to  the  Hollow,  while  Dick  and  Bill 
strolled  across  to  the  road;  and  he  saw 
them,  as  he  reached  home,  sauntering  on 
towards  the  village. 

Jerry  went  up  the  overgrown  path  that 
led" from  the  road  to  the  house,  and  tried 
the  door,  but  it  was  locked.  Chary  was 
gone  away,  then,  and  Jerry  gave  a  sort  of 
patient  groan  as  he  sat  down  on  the  stone 
before  the  door.  He  had  begun  to  hope 
there  might  be  some  crusts  in  the  house, 
and  was  making  up  his-  mind  to  be  con- 
tented with  them  instead  of  the  round- 
hearts,  but  here  was  an  end  of  that  now. 
To  £>e  sure,  if  he  tried,  there  were  several 
ways  of  getting  into  the  old  house.  The 
window  of  the  garret  was  open ;  and  if  he 
chose  to  carry  the  old  step-ladder  that  was 
lying  by  the  wood-pile  round  to  it,  he  might 


tjO  ROUNDHEARTS. 

tf 

easily  climb  up  and  get  into  the  attic.  But 
the  prospect  of  success  in  his  search  was 
too  faint,  or  the  idea  of  tugging  the  ladder 
around  the  hous.e  was  too  much  for  his 

strength ;  for  he  sat  still  on  the  door-step, 

• 

witn  his  chin  on  his  hands,  too  weak  and 
spiritless  to  move.  By  and  by,  however, 
Uncle  Jake,- a  stalwart  negro  who  lived  a 
few  doors  off,  shouted  out  to  him  from  the 
potato-patch  where  he  was  hoeing,  "  I  say, 
Jerry,  what  you  about  ?  Aunt  Chary  is 
gone  to  Sampson's,  and  won't  be  back  till 
bout  dark,  and  she  wants  you  to  go  down 
to  the  shore  and  dig  some  clams  for 
supper.  The  hoe  and  basket's  round  by 
the  back  door."  ^ 

"  Did  she  say  I  must  go  ? "  Jerry  said, 
with  a  miserable  conviction  that  this 
message  indicated  that  there  was  nothing 
else  for  supper. 


ROUNDHEARTS.  5 1 

"  Wall,  ef  she  hadn't,  do  you  think  I'd 
have  told  you  so  ? " 

And  Uncle  Jake  resumed  his  work,  and 
took  no  further  notice  of  little  Jerry. 


ROUNDHEARTS. 


CHAPTER   III. 

ASLEEP  ON   THE   fcEACH. 

ORTUNATELY  for  Jerry, 
at  the  moment  that  he 
reached  the  gate,  carrying 
the  rake  and  basket,  never 
so  "heavy  before,  a  stripped  wagon 
came  along  on  its  way  to  the  saw- 
mill. He  asked  the  man  if  he 
might  ride;  and  the  man  nodded  yes, 
and  slacked  up  a  little,  and  then  stopped 
quite,  when  he  saw  the  difficulty  that  the 
child  had  in  climbing  on.  Jerry  got  his 
seat  at  last,  however,  and  the  horses 
started  off  very  briskly.  The  ride  rested 


ROUNDHEARTS.  cj3 

him  a  good  deal,  and  the  fresh  wind  in  his 
face  made  him  feel  quite  alive  again ;  and 
by  the  time  the  man  drew  up  at  .the-  saw- 
mill, he  was  strong  enough  to  get  down 
without  stumbling,  and  to  pick  up  his  hoe 
and  basket  and  walk  off  like  a  man,  feeling 
them  not  half  so  heavy  as  they  were 
before. 

As  he  looked  down  towards  the  beach, 
he  saw  that  the  tide  was  still  too  high  for 
clamming;  so,  knowing  the  best  place  was 
abo'ut  half-way  between  the  creek  and 
the  steamboat  landing,  he  got'  over  the 
fence  and  plodded  across  the  swamp  and 
Mr.  Walton's  cornfield,  and  at  last  came 
out  upon  the  beach,  just  at  the  right  of 
two  large  bathing-houses  that  stood  alone 
below  the  fence.  The  tide  Had  gone  down 
very  slowly;  it  was  still  too  high,  so  he 
must  wait  awhile.  He  threw  himself 


54  ROUNDHEARTS. 

down  on  the  soft  sand,  in  the  shade  of  a 
clump  of  cedar-trees,  and  almost  out  of 
sighf  of  anything  at .  the  right  of  him, 
by  reason  of  the  bathing-houses.  The 
sand  was  very  soft  and  dry,  and  the  breeze 
blowing  across  the  bay  was  cool  and  fresh ; 
and  by  and  by,  lulled  by  the  low  sound  of 
the  water  dashing  up  on  the  beach  at  his 
feet,  and  the  stillness  of  everything  else 
around  him,  the  fagged  child  laid  his*head 

on  his  arm  and  fell  fast  asleep. 

• 

The  next  thing  he  was  conscious  of  was 
the  shutting  and  locking  of  the  bathing- 
house  door,  which  made  him  awake  with  a 
start.  Sitting  up  and  rubbing  his  eyes,  he 
saw  that  the  tide  was  more  than  half  down, 

and  he  started  to  his  feet  in  some  alarm, 

• 
nearly  running  against  a  young  lad  who 

had  just  come  out  of  the  bathing-house, 
and  whom  in  his  hurry  and  bewilderment, 


ROU2WHEARTS.  55 

he  had  not  seen  before.  He  was  a  manly- 
looking  boy  of  about  eleven  years,  very 
fresh  and  rosy  from  his  bath,  and  followed 
close  by  the  little  Larry  whom  Jerry  had 
that  afternoon  seen  with  his  mother  at  the 
school. 

"Hollo!"  ^cried  the  older  boy,  "don't 
run  over  us,  I  say?  Did  you  come  with 
those  boys  ?  What  are  they  about  ? " 

* 

"  What  boys  ?  "  stammered  Jerry,  con- 
fusedly, looking  bewildered  around  him. 

Aye,  what  boys  indeed ;  and  what  were 
they  about!  Jerry  looked  down  below, 
on  the  *  beach  left  bare  by  the  retreating 
tide,  and  at  the  group  pushing  off  the  little 
boat  that  had  been  left  high  up  by  it ;  and 
dull  and  weary  as  his  eyes  were,  they 
could  not  fail  to  see  what  it  all  meant. 
He  put  his  hand  for  a  moment  to  his  head, 
•as  if  it  were  confused  and  aching,  then 


i- 6  BOUNDHEARTS. 

sprang  down  towards  them  as  if  wild.  The 
boat  was  off,  Ap  standing  in  the  stern,  and 
holding  in  his  hand  the  shingle  with  poor  " 
Moll  lashed  on  it,  waiting  for  the  word 
from  his  companions  to  throw  her  off  into 
the  deep  water.  There  were  rro  oars  to 
the  boat;  so  the  two  on  the  shore  had 
given  it  a  hard  push,  holding  the  anchor 
fast  meantime,  and  had  sent  it  quite  far  out ; 
far  enough  for  their  purpose,  in  fact,  which 
was  only  to  get  their  wretched  victim  quite 
clear  of  the  shore,  and  that  was  not  a 
difficult  thing,  for  the  tide  was  falling,  and 
would  naturally  carry  her  out  into  the  bay, 
whether  they  started  her  that  way  or  not, 
and  she  was  perfectly  helpless,  and  at  the 
mercy  of  the  current. 

They  started  guiltily,  when  Jerry 
rushed  down  the  beach ;  but  Bill,  recover- 
ing himself,  called  out  to  Ap  to  give 


BO  UNDHEARTS.  $  7 

• 

her  a  good  swing  quick,  and  they'd  pull 
him  in. 

"Swing  her  if  you  dare,"  cried  Jerry, 
seizing  the  rope  and  trying  to  pull  the 
boat  in.  "  I'll  kill  you  if  you  throw  her  in 
the  water ;  I'll  kill  you " 

"  Swing  her  off — quick,  quick,"  shouted 
Dick  to  Ap. 

But  Jerry,  like  a  little  savage  as  he  was, 
rushed  into  the  water  up  to  his  waist  and 
clutched  at  the  boat.  It  'was  just  beyond 
his  reach,  but  another  plunge  brought  him 
to  it ;  and  grasping  the  side  with  one  hand, 
with  the  other  he  dealt  a  vehement  blow 
on  Ap's  rfaked  legs,  and  was  rewarded  by 
a  hard  kick  in  return. 

"Stamp  o;n  his  hands;  kick  him;  kick 
him  off,"  cried  Bill. 

"Swing  the  cat;  swing  her  quick!' 
shouted  Dick. 


c  8  ROUNDHEARTS. 

But  Ap  could  not  swing  Mtfll ;  he  had 
his  hands  full,  parrying  Jerry's  frantic  blows, 
and  it  was  not  till  he  had  beaten  the  boy 
off  from  the  boat  that  he  was  able  to  lift 
the  shingle  up  and  give  it  the  desired  hurl 
out  beyond  his  reach.  But  whether  from 
hurry,  or  from  excitement,  or  the  dread  of 
having  those  savage  fists  about  his  legs 
again  if  he  didn't  get  to  shore,  Ap  did  not 
give  the  cat  the  toss  he  had  intended ;  she 
struck  the  water  not  ten  feet  from  where 
they  were,  struck  head  foremost,  went 

*  partly  under,  but  came  all  out  again  in 
an  instant,  dripping  and  horrible  to  look 
at,  with  her  distended  eyes  and  gasping 

-*  mouth. 

Before  Ap  knew  it  or  could  resist,  Jerry 
was  in  the  boat  beside  him,  and  hand  to 
hand  they  renewed  the  fight ;  Jerry  strug- 
gling to  get  to  the  stern  of  the  boat,  where 


ROUNDHEARTS.  59 

,he  hoped  to  reach  the  shingle,  Ap  holding 
him  back  and  returning  blow  for  blow. 
At  this  moment  the  boys  on  the  shore 
began  to  pull  in  the  boat,  for  they  began 
to  fear  for  the  result  of  the  encounter ;  and 
the  white  boys  by  the  bathing-house  had 
come  down  and  demanded  what  it  meant, 
as  if,  should  they  find  it  wrong,  they  would 
surely  do  their  best  to  right  it.  But  the 
sudden  motion  of  the  boat  threw  them 
both  down.  Ap  made  a  violent  effort  to 
push  Jerry  overboard,  but,  as  is  not  unfre- 
quently  the  case,  his  evil  design  came 
back  upon  himself;  his  efforts  made  the 
boat  tip  just  an  inch  too  far,  and  into  the 
water  they  both  rolled,  Jerry  uppermost, 
only  relaxing  his  hold  on  his  antagonist  as 
they  -went  under.  They  rose,  in  an  in- 
stant; Jerry  touched  bottom  where  he 
stood,  and  making  a  violent  plunge  in  the 


<5o  ROUNDHEARTS. 

direction  of  the  half-drowned  cat,  struck 
vigorously  out  and  swam  towards  her. 
The  tide,  however,  had  drifted  her  into 
pretty  deep  water  by  this  time,  and  little 
Jerry's  arms  were  very  weak,  and  he  was 
but  an  indifferent  swimmer;  it  was  no 
wonder  he  did  not  make  much  headway, 
loaded"  down  with  his  clumsy  clothes  and 
heavy  boots,  and  growing  fainter  every 
minute. 

How  had  he  struggled !  What  brave 
str6kes  he  tried  to  make  with  his  limbs, 
out  of  which  the  strength  seemed  going — 
going  so  fast !  How  anxiously  he  kept  his 
eyes  on  the  object  ahead  of  him,  which  did 
not  seem  to  grow  a  bit  nearer,  work  as 
hard  as  he  might !  How  cold  and  wide 
the  bay  looked  with  his  eyes  on  a  level 
with  it ;  and  the  waves  came  into  his  mouth 
at  every  stroke,  and  his  head  seemed  to  be 


ROUNDHEARTS.  6l 

growing  lower  and  lower  down,  and  the 
rush  of  the  water  in  his  ears  almost  deaf- 
ened him. 

Poor  Moll !  Oh,  if  he  could  only  get  to 
her,  they  would  both  go  down  together ; 
they  would  get  rid  of  the  cruel,  ugly,  wick- 
ed people ;  they  wouldn't  be  unhappy  any 
more ;  he  didn't  care  what  happened  to  'em, 
he  didn't  care  what  God  did  to  'em — God 
was  good. 

His  head  was  getting  lower  and  lower; 
the  rushing,  deafening  waves  were  rolling 
in  his  ears  and  blinding  his  eyes;  a  faint, 
limp  feeling  was  creeping  over  all  his 
limbs.  There  was  no  use,  he  couldn't  get 
her ;  he  was  sinking ;  he  stretched  his 
hand  out  once,  but  it  was  far  top  short  to 
reach  the  shingle,  now  not  three  feet  off ; 
he-  had  tried  his  best;  he  had  to  give 


62  ROUNDHEARTS. 

up.     He  tried  to  say,  or  perhaps  he  -only 
thought, 

"  Deliver  us  from  evil," 

and    the   struggle   was    over;    the  'waves 
choked  the  prayer  as  they  rolled  over  him.  . 
Poor  Jerry  had  sunk.     Moll  on  her  board 
rode  the  waters  alone. 


BOUNDHEARTS.  63 


CHAPTER   IV. 

THE     LITTLE     HERO. 

ALF  an  hour  later  that 
afternoon,  there  was  an 
unusual  stir  on  the  steps 
of  Mrs.  Danforth's  house ; 
the  doctor's  gig  stood  before 
the  door;  and  that  gentleman,  just 
going,  was  giving  his  departing 
instructions  to  the  nurse,  who,  with  an 
armful  of  flannel  wrappers,- stood  on  the 
piazza,  beside  him,  white  little  Larry,  with 
very  large  and  excited  eyes,  holding  fast 
his  mother's  dress,  watched  them  from  the 
doorway. 

"  Keep  Master  Roland  in  bed  till  I  see 


64  ROUNDHEARTS. 

him  .to-morrow  morning,"  the  doctor  was 
saying.  "  I  don't  apprehend  any  ill  effects 
from  his  adventure  to-day,  but  it  is  best  to 
be  on  the  safe  side.  He  is  only  a  little 
restless  from  his  excitement  and  exertions, 
I  fancy,  ami  will  be  quite  fresh  after  a  good 
night's  sleep.  Such  a  brave  boy  ought  not 
to  be  neglected,  at  any  rate.  I  am  sure 
you  have  reason  to*  be  proud  of  him,  Mrs. 
Danforth." 

"  I  think  I  am— ra  little,  perhaps,"  she 
answered,  with  a  smile.  "  But  it  is  no 
more  than  we  ought  to  have  expected  of 
Roland;  you  know  that  he  has  always 
been  told  his  duty,  whereas  poor  little 
Jerry,  untaught  and  neglected,  has  turned 
out  such  a  hero,  that  I  feel  I  can  never 
admire  him  enough." 

"Poor  little  fellow !"  said  the  doctor, 
thoughtfully.  "  He  is  such  a  dull-looking 


ROUNDHEARTS.  65' 

child,  I  never  imagined  he  was  capable  of 
so  much  courage.  How  did  you  hear  the 
whole  story  of  the  sixpence  and  the 
roundhearts  ? " 

"  Why,  Ap,  Jjie  ringleader  of  the  plot, 
was  very  much  subdued  and  terrified  at 
his  own  fall  into  the  water;  and  when  he 
reached  the  shore  and  witnessed,  with  the 
others,  Jerry's  attempts  to  reach  the  cat, 
and  his .  subsequent  failure  of  strength,  he 
was  very  much  overcome  and  horrified ; 
and  after  Roland  brought  to  shore  'what  he 
thought  was  poor  Jerry's  dead  body,  he  be- 
gan to  cry  and  say,  '  They  had  done  it ;  it 
was  all  their  fault.'  I  started  for  the  beach 
just  then  and  met  him  coming  up  the  lane, 
crying  bitterly;  and  he  told  me  all  the 
story,  with  a  little  coaxing  and  threatening, 
before  I  knew  exactly  who  was  hurt  or 
what  had  happened." 


66  ROUNDHEARTS. 

"  Well,  well,"  said  the  doctor,  "  I  hope 
poor  little  Jerry  will  IrVe  through  his  trial, 
and  get  well;  and  there's  one  thing  cer- 
tain,' we  won't  let  him  starve  if  he  does. 
He  shall  have  as  many  ro^mdhearts  as  he 
can  cram  for  the  balance  of  his  days. 
I  will  come  early  to-morrow,  ma'am, 
and  hope  to  hear  good  news  of  both  my 

patients,  indeed,  of  all   three,  I  may  say ; 

• 
for  Moll,   down   by  the   kitchen  fire,  she 

counts  one,  doesn't  she  ?  Larry,  my  boy ! 
I  leave  her  in  your  charge.  Give  her 
another  Dover's  powder  if  she's  restless  in 
the  night,  and  don't  forget  the  warm  ap- 
plications ;  they're  of  great  importance. 
Good-by,  madam." 

Larry  grew  very  red  and  hot,  and  looked 
up  awkwardly  in  his  mother's  face  to  see 

whether  the  doctor  was  joking  or  serious, 

• 
as  he  drove  off.     His  mother  laughe.d  and 


ROUNDHEARTS.  67 

said,  "  She  didn't  think  Moll  would  need  the 
powder,  but  he  might  go  down  and  see  whe- 
ther she  was  doing  well,  and  then  come 
up  and  sit  by  Roland  if  he  liked."  He 
did  like,  and  went  down  to  the  kitchen  and 
walked  softly  over  to  the  fireplace,  where, 
in  a  warm  corner  on  the  hearth,  stood  a 
basket,  in .  which,  on  a  soft,  thick  old 
shawl,  lay  Moll,  an  unfinished  bowl  of 
bread  and  milk  standing  on  the  hearth  be- 
side her  basket,  being  probably  the  first 
unfinished  nourishment  that  had  ever  be- 
fore been  allowed  to  stand  within  her  reach 
since  she  had  begun  td  provide  for  herself. 
Larry's  hospitable  attentions  knew  no 
bounds ;  he  overwhelmed  her  with  bread 
and  milk,  chicken  soup,  and  panada,  the 
last  two  preparations  being  intended  for 
the  young  invalids  up-stairs,  and  gave  her 
no  peace  till  she  had  completely  gorged 


68  ROUNDHEARTS. 

• 

* 

herself  and  nearly  brought  on  a  fit.  She 
rather  resisted  being  put  in  the  basket,  and 
got'  out  several  times ;  but  at  last,  a  little 
overcome  by  the  heat  and  her  unusual 
state  of  satiety,  she  gave  in,  and  lay  down 
rather  uncomfortably  and  looked  about 
her.  But  it  became  evident  even  to  Larry 
that 

"  The  burden  of  an .  honor  whereunto  she  was  not  born," 

was  having  a  very  depressing  effect  upon 
her.  She  tried  to  be  contented,  but  she 
was  visibly  in  a  much  disturbed  state  of 
mind,  fier  submission  rather  touched 
Larry,  and,  after  consulting  with  Rosa- 
mond, the  cook,  he  concluded  that  it 
wouldn't  hurt  her  to  take  a  little  gentle 
exercise,  if  she  confined  herself  to  the 
kitchen  ;  so  he  lifted  her  out  of  the  basket, 
and  then  ran  and  shut  all  the  doors  and 


ROmWHEARTS.  69 

windows,  and  got  up  on  the  table  and 
watched  her.  She  walked  about  much  as 
cats  usually  walk,  and  at  length  sat  herself 
down  near  the  door,  and  mewed  a  little 
uneasily.  It  was  possible  that  the  increas- 
ing heat  had  something  to  do  with  her 
discomfort,  for  by  that  time  the  thermome- 
ter would  have  stood  at  96°  in  the  cold- 
est corner  of  the  kitchen;  and  the  cook, 
at  last  aroused  to  the  state  of  the  tem- 
perature, made  a  great  outcry,  and  rushed 
about  bursting  open  doors  and  windows* 
and  ejaculating  that  they'd  all  have  been 
smothered  in  three  minutes  more  of  such 
heat.  Larry  jumped  down  from  his  tabte 
and  ran  after  her,  imploring  her  to  stop, 
that  Moll  would  get  away.;  but  the  busi- 
ness was  done,  and  before  he  could  reach 
the  cat  she 'had  slipped  out  of  the  door 
and  was  lost '  to  sight  among  the  lilac- 


yO  ROUNDHEARTS. 

bushes.  .In  great  consternation  the  little 
boy  followed  and  called  her,  but  the  only 
glimpse  he  caught  of  her  after  that,  was  as 
she  darted  from  the  lilac-bushes  to  the 
shelter  of  the  piazza,.  Her  practised  eye 
had  discovered  a  loose  stone  that  no  doubt 
had  admitted  many  cats  before  her  time  to 
the  lofty,  dark,  "cobwebbed  hall  under  the 
long  piazza,  where  they  were  safe  from  all 
""  pursuit,  and  where,  also,  the  pleasures  of. 
the  chase  were  to  be  enjoyed  to  some  ex- 
tent. It  had  long  been  the  favorite  ren- 
dezvous of  the  mice  from  the  cellar  and 
the  mice  from  the  house,  and  the  danger 
of  the  meeting-ground  only  seemed  to 
heighten  its  attractions  for  them.  Moll 
sniffed  about  with  interest,  and  felt  very 
complacent  as  she  sat  herself  down  a  few 
feet  from  the  entrance,  quite  out  of  reach 
of  the  pole  with  which  Larry  was  poking 


ROUNDHEARTS.  Jl 

about  for  her,  and  quite  out  of  reach  of  the 
anxious  pair  of  eyes  he  applied  to  the  hole 
which  admitted  the  only  daylight  that  illu- 
mined the  place. 

Larry  did  not  give  up .  till  the  tea-bell 
rang,  and  then  he  went  in  and  whispered 
low  to  his  mother  the  misfortune  that  had 
befallen  him  in  his  capacity  of  nurse,  and 
the  great  fears  he  entertained  for  Moll's 
safety.  His  mother  comforted  him  very 
much  by  saying  she  did  not  think  there 
was  any  danger  of  Moll's  taking  cold,  and 
that  it  was  probable  she  enjoyed  herself 
much  better  under  the  piazza  than  by  the 

• 

kitchen  fire.  She  .would  no  doubt  come 
out  when  she  was  hungry ;  and  if  he  fed 
her  well  she  would  soon  be  quite  "over  all 
the  bad  effects  of  her  bath. 

There  was  very  little  else  talked  about 
at  the  tea-table  besides  Jerry's  trying  to 


>j2  ROUNDHEARTS.  » 

save  Moll,  and  Roland's  saving  Jerry. 
'The  patient  papa  had  heard  the  whole 
story  from  each  one  of  the  children  sepa- 
rately, and  then  submitted  to  hear  it  in 
chorus  again  at  the  table,  for  they  all 
talked  at  once,  and  all  so  eagerly  that  the 
words  and  the  sense  were  not  much  clearer 
to  the  listener  than  the  chorus  of  a  new 
opera  is  to  one  who  hears  it  for  the  first 
time. 

But  in^  such  a  case  as  this,  ordinary 
rules  must  give  way ;  and  the  children  went 
to  bed  twenty  minutes  later  than  usual  that 
night,  quite  worn  out  with  their  unaccus- 
tomed .  excitement  and.  the  unaccustomed 
liberty  it  had  obtained  for  them.  Roland, 
indeed,  could  hardly  get  asleep  at  all,  and 
muttered "  wildly  even  when  he  slept  all 
night  long.  Poor  little  Jerry's  night  was 
even  worse  than  the  nurse  had  feared. 


ROUNDHEARTS.  73 

She  watched  beside  him  till  almost  day- 
break, hoping  the  fever  would  abate,  and 
that  he  would  get  some  rest.  He  was 
quite  delirious  and  wide  awake,  though, 
until  dawn,  when  the  medicines  he  had 
taken  began  to  affect  him,  and  he  fell  into 
an  uneasy  doze. 

It  was  towards  evening  of  that  day, 
when,  coming  suddenly  back  into  the  room 
which  she  had  left  about  ten  minutes  be- 
fore, the  nurse  found  Jerry  sitting  up  in 
bed,  his  eyes  wide  open,  staring  about  him. 
He  had  lain  all  day  in  a  sort  of  stupor,  and 
this  was  his  first  view  of  the  strange  place 
to  which  his  adventure  had  led  him.  It 
was  such  a  very  different  room,  from  any 
he  had  ever  waked  up  in  before,  and  such 
a  very  different  bed  from  any  he  had  ever 
slept  on  before !  If  was  a  little  room,  and 
an  attic  -  room  too ;  but  very  clean  and 


74  ROUNDHEARTS- 

comfortable,  and  pleasant-looking ;  and  the 
sheets  were  so  white,  Jerry  felt  that  he 
looked  like  a  cockroach  or  a  beetle  lying 
in  them.  Where  was  he ;  what  did  it  all 
mean ;  who  was  this  coming  in  to  take 
care  of  him  ?  And  the  thinking  made  his 
head  swim  so  that  he  had  to  lay  it  down 
on  the  pillow  again. 

"  Well,  my  little  man,"  said  the  nurse, 
coming  up  to  the  bed,  "  and  how  do  you 
feel  by  this  time  ? " 

"  What  time  ? "  returned  Jerry,  troubled 
and  unsettled  in  all  his  ideas  of  date  and 
place,  and  looking  anxiously  up  at  her. 

"  Why,  this  time,"  she  said,  laughing ; 
"just  now.  Does  your  head  ache  ? ' 

"  I  believe  it  does,"  he  answered  slowly, 
putting  his  hand  up  to  his  forehead  and 
half-turning  over  in  bed.  "  Where — where 
am  I ;  do  you  know  ?  " 


ROUNDHEARTS.  75 

"Well,  yes,  I  know;  and  I'll  tell  you. 
You  know  who  Mrs.  Danforth  is,  don't 
you?" 

"  Her  as  comes  up  to  the  school  ?  Oh, 
yes." 

"  Well,  you  know  -she's  a  very  kind  lady, 
and  when  you  were  pitched  out  of  the  boat 
the  other  night,  you  were  brought  up  to 
her  house ;  and  here  you  are  now,  and  here 
I  am,  a  taking  care  of  you.  That's  all, 
ain't  it?" 

"  Out  of  the  boat ! "  and  Jerry  looked 
very  much  bewildered.  "  What  boat  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no  matter,  child,  if  you  don't  re- 
member. 'You  fell  out  of  a  boat,  that's  all, 
and  got  sick  after  it.  Now  lie  still  like  a 
good  boy  till  I  get  something  for  you  to 
eat" 

It  all  seemed,  however,  to  come  back  to 
his  recollection  like  a  flash ;  for  raising 


^5  ROUNDHEARTS. 

himself  up  on  his  elbow  and  looking  wildly 
in  her  face,  he  stammered  out : 

"  Where — where's  Moll  ?  " 

"  Oh,  she's  all  right ;   there,  lie  down  a 
minute  and  you  shall  see  her  for  yourself." 

She  went  out  of  the  room,  and  in  a  few 
•  minutes  returned,  followed  by  Larry,  holding 
Moll  in  his  arms,  and  looking  excited  and 
delighted.  Moll,  however,  struggled  her- 
self out  of  his  arms  as  soon  as  they  entered 
the  room,  and  with  an  eager  mew,  darted 
across  the  floor  and  sprang  up  on  the 
bed.  Jerry's  bewildered  eyes  softened  and 
cleared  as  they  fell  on  her;  and  putting 
his  arms  around  her,  his  face  grew  natural 
and  childish-looking  as  he  listened  to  her 
affectionate  purr.  She  settled  herself  com- 
fortably down  on  his  arm,  and  he  turned 
his  face  towards  her  on  the  pillow,  and 
seemed  quite  content  to  lie  still  so,  and 


ROUNDHEARTS.  77 

not  ask  any  more  questions,  or  bother  his 
brain  about  how  they  both  got  there,  so 
comfortable  and  safe,  after  their  frightful 
parting  .out  on  the  bay,  at  some  unknowa 
period  of  time  past. 


78  ROmWEEARTS. 


CHAPTER   V. 

DELIVERED   FROM   EVIL. 

HE  evening  on  which  Jerry, 
dressed  in  his  new  suit  of 
clothes,  first  came  in  to 
prayers  with  the  rest  of  the 
servants,  was  an  exciting  one  to  the 
Danforth  children.  Indeed  the 
younger  ones  looked  at  him  with 
much  more  interest  than  was  consistent 
with  the  attention  their  father  expected 
them  to  pay  to  the  chapter  he  read 
them  from  the  Bible;  and  when  Moll, 
pushing  open  the  door  which  had  been 
left  ajar,  introduced  her  glossy,  improved 
person  into  the  room,  there  was  a  general 


ROUNDHEARTS.  '  79 

stir  and  tittering  among  them.  Jerry, 
looking  infinitely  distressed,  took  her  up 
and  put  her  out ;  and  the  children,  from  his 
serious  face,  caught  an  apprehension  that 
there  wasn't  anything  funny  in  it  after 
all,  perhaps,  and  quieted  gradually  down. 
Indeed,  poor  Jerry,  though  he  felt  a  little 
queer  and  awkward  in  his  new  clothes, 
never  seemed  to  lose  sight,  for  a  minute,  of 
the  new  and  strange  duty  that  had  brought 
him  there,  and  the  soberness  and  attention 
required  of  people  saying  their  prayers 
to  God. 

Perhaps,  little  as  he  suspected  it,  Jerry's 
example  in  this,  did  the  children  good,  and 
reminded  them  of  that  which,  by  constant 
familiarity  with  the  duty,  they  had  begun 
somewhat  to  neglect ;  and  his  steady,  slow, 
earnest  way  of  going  through  his  daily 
work,  and  his  constant  good  temper  and 


8o  ROUNDHEARTS. 

willingness  to  serve  them,  made  him  as  great 
a  favorite  with  them  as  with  their  elders. 
Roland  taught  him  reading  and  writing  in 
the  evenings,  and  helped  him  learn  his 
Catechism  for  Sundays ;  and  felt,  in  a  man- 
ner, that  he  was  personally  responsible  for 
his  improvement  and  good  behavior.  And 
Jerry  responded  in  gratitude  and  affection 
to  the  interest  and  patience  of  his  young 
preserver. 

A  happy,  safe,  Christian  home,  indeed, 
poor  Jerry  had  been  rewarded  with  after 
all  his  sufferings  and  temptations.  The 
recollection  of  those  first  years  of  his 
miserable  childhood  only  stayed  by  him  to 
make  him  see  more  clearly  the  mercy  ^that 
had  brought  him  safely  out  of  danger, 
and  the  answer  that  even  such  imperfect 
childish  prayers  as  his  had  obtained. 

Jerry's  intellect,  to  be  sure,  was  none  of 


ROUNDHEARTS.  8l 

the  brightest,  and  the  learning  he  acquired, 
with  all  his  patience,  never  amounted  to 
the  requirements  even  of  a  decent  educa- 
tion ;  but  "  The  fear  of  the  LORD  is  the 
beginning  of  wisdom,  and  a  good  under- 
standing have  all  they  that  do  thereafter." 
And  remembering  that,  no  one  can  won- 
der that  Jerry  lived  to  be  a  respectable, 
hard-working,  prosperous  man,  long  after 
he  had  seen  his  old  companions  and 
persecutors  fallen  into  evil  ways,  and  seen 
them  reach  the  inevitable  end  of  evil 
ways. 

Doing  his  duty  simply  and  sincerely, 
not  looking  above  his  station,  but  being  as 
faithful  as  he  knew  how  to  be  in  it;  the 
GOD  whom  he  served  took  kind  care  of 
him,  and  ordered  for  his  good  all  the 

events  of  his  honest,  honorable  life. 
4« 


THE'   CHRISTMAS    SISTER. 


THE 

CHRISTMAS  SISTER. 


HERE  was  a  loud  ringing  at 
the  door. 

"  Some  of  our  presents, 
I'll  bet  a  cookie,"  cried  Paul, 
and  then  stopped  short,  for  he  had 
been  told  a  great  many  times  not  to 
say  "  I'll  bet." 
"  Just   supposing    it   should    be,"    mur- 
mured little  Anita,  holding  her  breath  as 
she  listened. 


86  THE  CHRISTMAS  SISTER. 

The  two  children  were  alone  in  the  par- 
lor, and  it  was  Christmas  Eve.  Do  little 
children  ever  think  of  anything  but  pre- 
sents on  Christmas  Eve,  I  wonder?  Anita, 
and  Paul  her  older  brother,  were  pretty 
good  children,-  and  very  apt  to  be  pleased 
with  whatever  came  to  them.  They  were 
never  disappointed  in  their  stockings, 
though  they  imagined  so  many  things  be- 
forehand, that  it  would  have  taken  a  much 
larger  house  than  the  one  they  lived  in,  to 
have  held  them  all,  if  they  had  come. 

The  ring  proved  to  be  only  a  man  with 
brooms  for  sale,  and  the  servant  slammed 
the  door  after  him,  as  if  she  thought  nobody 
had  any  business  to  bring  her  up-stairs"on 
such  an  errand ;  and  the  children  fell  back 
to  their  places  by  the  window,  as  if  they 
thought  nobody  had  any  business  to  be 
selling  brooms  on  Christmas  Eve. 


THE   CHRISTMAS  SISTER.  87 

"  Who  does  he  suppose  wants  his  old 
brooms ! "  said  Paul,  sulkily. 

"  Oh,  well,  never  mind !  There's  plenty 
of  time  for  the  presents  to  come  yet.  Look, 
it's  only  seven  o'clock." 

"  I  wish  it  were  nine,  and  I  were  fast 

• 

asleep,"  said  Paul.  "  I  wish  it  weren't  so 
dreadful  long  till  morning ! " 

"  Oh,  no,"  said  Anita ;  "  it's  a  pity  to  wish 
it  all  over.  Make  believe  we  weren't  in 
any  hurry." 

So  the  wise  little  woman  cuddled  herself 
up  in  the  arm-chair  by  the  fire,  and  patted 
her  doll's  hard  head,  and  whispered  to  her 
that  to-morrow  was  Christmas-Day. 

"  Oh,  dolly ! "  she  whispered  with  a  sigh, 
"if  you  only  understood  what  I  said  to  you, 
and  if  your  head  was  not  so  very  hard ! " 

Poor  little  Anita!  She  longed  so  to  have 
a  doll  with  warm  little  hands  and  soft  hair 


gg  THE  CHRISTMAS  SISTER. 

that  curled,  and  was  not  put  on  with  glue. 
She  always  felt  like  covering  her  dolls'  eyes 
up,  when  they  stared  directly  at  her  without 
any  sense  in  them,  and  she  thought  they 
looked  worse  still,  when  she  pulled  the  wire 
and  shut  them  up.  She  loved  her  doll,  but 
she  was  not  satisfied  with  her;  and  it  was 
not  safe  to  tell  Paul  how  she  felt,  for  Paul 
always  laughed  at  "  Rosalind,"  and  would 
do  so  a  great  deal  more,  if  she  told  him  her 
own  little  discontents  about  her. 

The  only  person  she  dared  to  talk  to  was 
dear  mamma,  who  seemed  to  understand 
better  than  anybody.  Mamma  was  sick 
now,  too  sick  to  be  talked  to  very  much; 
but  Anita,  as  she  sat  nursing  her  stiff  pet 
before  the  fire,  felt  such  a  desire  to  have  a 
little  comfort  about  it,  that  she  made  up 
her  mind  to  go  and  try  if  she  could  get  in 
at  her  mother's  door.  So  slipping  down 


THE  CHRISTMAS  SISTER,  89 

off  her  chair,  she  tucked  "  Rosalind"  under 
her  arm,  and  said  to  Paul : 

"  I'm  going  to  mamma's  room  for  awhile. 
You  call  me  if  any  presents  come." 

"  No,"  said  Paul ;  "  I  shall  go  too.  It's 
so  tiresome  waiting  here  alone." 

Anita  gave  a  little  sigh.  She  did  not 
want  Paul  to  come.  She  liked  her  talks 
with  her  mother  best  alone,  but  she  was  too 
good  a  little  girl  to  be  cross  and  say  he 
shouldn't.  She  knew  he  had  a  right  to 
come  if  he  pleased,  and  she  only  said : 

"  Well,  we  must  be  very  quiet" 

Their  mother's  door  was  ajar,  and  Anita 
pushed  it  a  little  further  open,  and  said, 
• "  Can  we  come  in  ?  "  in  such  a  dear  little 
gentle  voice,  that  she  could  not  have  said 
"no,"  even  if  she  had  not  wanted  them. 
They  went  in,  while  their  father  shook  his 
head  and  said  he  feared  they  would  disturb 


THE  CHEISTMAS  SISTER. 


her.  She  was  sitting  up  in  a  large  chair 
by  the  fire,  which  was  blazing  very  brightly, 
and  which  made  her  look  better  than  she 
looked  by  daylight.  Their  father  was  sit- 
ting by  her  holding  one  of  her  hands,  but 
he  made  a  place  for  Paul  on  his  knee,  while 
Anita  nestled  herself  down  on  the  footstool 
at  her  mother's  feet. 

"  How's  Rosalind  ?  "  said  mamma,  in  her 
low,  tired  voice. 

"Oh,  much  as  usual,"  answered  Anita 
with  a  sigh,  laying  her  down  on  the  floor 
beside  her. 

Mamma  smiled.  She  knew  all  about 
her  little  girl's  thoughts  just  from  that. 

"  It  would  be  nice  if  her  hair  grew  out 
of  her  head,  wouldn't  it  ?  "  she  whispered, 
too  low  for  Paul  to  hear. 

"  Oh,  mamma  !  "  exclaimed  Anita,  with 
another  sigh. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  SISTER.  91 

"And  if  her  nose  weren't  so  hard  and 
pointed  when  you  struck  against  it  ? " 

"Ah!" 

"  And  if  her  little  feet  were  pink  and  soft, 
and  if  she  kicked  them  up  in  your  face  and 
laughed  when  you  laid  her  on  your  lap 
and  put  her  night-clothes  on ! " 

"And  if  her  arms  moved  without  a 
creak,  mamma ! " 

"  And  if  you  could  put  her  in  the  bath- 
tub and  sponge  all  around  her  little  neck 
and  cheeks,  without  having  any  of  the 
paint  come  off ! " 

"  And  if,  oh  mamma,  if  she  could  shut 
her  eyes,  without  making  herself  look  so 
very  nasty ! " 

"  And  if  she  could  put  her  arms  around 
your  neck,  Anita,  and  cuddle '  up  close, 
close  to  you,  dear ! " 

"  Oh  don't,  mamma ;  please  don't,"  cried 


g2  THE  CHRISTMAS  SISTER. 

Anita,  sinking  back.  "  There's  no. use  talk- 
ing anything  about  it.  I've  thought  so  much 
about  it,  I'm  tired  of  thinking  and  wishing 
any  more !  I  don't  care  a  bit  about  my 
presents  to-morrow.  I'd  rather  have  a  doll 
like  that,  than  all  'the  toy-shops  in  the  town." 

"  Oh  no,  Anita,"  said  mamma.  "  Think 
of  the  nice  games  and  books  that  may  be 
coming.  And  who  knows  but  there  may 
be  a  globe  of  gold-fish,  and  a  toy  village, 
and  possibly  a  set  of  china,  blue  and  gold, 
and  all  complete  ! " 

But  Anita  shook  her  head  again. 

"  I  don't  care  sixpence  for  them  all,  if  I 
could  only  have  a  live  baby  to  take  care  of 
and  to  love." 

"  But,  Anita !  you  don't  know  how  much 
trouble  it  would  be,  and  how  it  would  cry 
and  worry,  and  have  to  be  patted  and 
trotted,  and  put  to  sleep." 


THE  CHRISTMAS  SISTER.  93 

"Just  what  I  want  to  do  for  it,  mamma," 
cried  Nita,  putting  her  hands  together 
eagerly.  "  Then  I  should  feel -as  if  I  were 
being  useful,  and  as  if  it  couldn't  get  on 
without  me,  and  as  if  it  were  my  very  own, 
and  it  would  be  fun  to  get  tired  that  way. 
Oh  dear!" 

"  It  wouldn't  lie  still  like  Rosalind  for 
hours,  while  you  went  off  to  play  with 
Paul,  you  know." 

"  I  shouldn't  want  to  play  with  Paul, 
mamma.  That  is  only  because  Rosalind 

is  tiresome  and  doesn't  take  any  interest  in 

«. 

what  I  do  for  her." 

Mamma  smiled  again,  and  passed  her 
hand  gently  over  her  little  girl's  hair,  and 
then  leaned  back  in  her  chair,  seeming  too 
tired  to  talk  any  more.  Papa  noticed  that 
very  quickly,  for  he  was  always  watching 
her,  and  drew  Anita  away,  from  her,  and 


94  THE  CHRISTMAS  SISTER. 

took  her  on  his  other  knee  and  began  to 
tell  a  story,  so  that  they  should  not  talk. 
The  story  was  an  interesting  one,  but  it 
did  not  put  out  of  Anita's  head  the  things 
she  had  been  whispering  about  with 
mamma.  So  that  when  papa  at  length  • 
put  them  down  and  told  them  to  give  their 
good-night  kiss  and  run  away,  she  put  her 
lips  up  to  her  mother's  ear  and  said  softly : 

"  Do  you  think,  mamma,  there  is  any 
chance  of  my  ever  having  a  better  baby 
than  Rosalind  to  play  with  ? " 

"Why,  yes — perhaps  some  time  you 
may,  my  child,"  her  mother  answered, 
hesitatingly.  "  Yes,  perhaps,  if  you  are 
very  good." 

"  Mamma,"  and  her  voice  sunk,  "  do  you 
think  I  might  possibly — possibly  have  it 
for  to-morrow,  if  I  gave  up  all  the  other 
things?" 


TEE  CHRISTMAS.  SISTER.  95 

"  Oh,  as  to  that,  dear,  don't  think  any- 
thing about  it.  Enjoy  whatever  comes." 

"  I  wonder — that  is — mamma,  just  tell 
me — Does  God  have  anything  to  do  with 
such  things?  Does  He  know  what  we 
want  for  Christmas,  and  all  that  ? " 

"Yes,  darling,  He  knows  all  we  want, 
and  all  that  will  be  good  for  us." 

"And  there  is  no  harm  in  asking  Him 
for  things  ? " 

"  None,  Anita." 

"  Then,  mamma,  I'll  tell  you  what  I  mean 
to  do  to-night  when  I  say  my  prayers.  I 
mean  to  ask  Him  to  send  all  my  toys  to 
the  poor  children  in  the  lane,  and  to  send  a 
live  baby  to  this  house — a  live,  good,  darling 
baby!  Oh,  mamma,  wouldn't  that  be  a 
Christmas !  Oh,  mamma !  how  I  shall 
pray  for  it!  Good-night,  dear,  sweet 
mamma!" 


96  THE  CHRISTMAS  SISTER. 

Anita  thought  that  there  were  tears  on 
her  mother's  cheeks  as  she  kis.sed  her,  and 
stroked  her  hair,  and  held  her  close  to  her 
before  she  let  her  go.  But  lately  there  had 
been  tears  so  often  in  her  mother's  eyes, 
that  she  did  not  wonder  very  much  about 
it ;  only  felt  a  little  solemn  as  she  went  away. 

When  Anita  said  her  prayers,  she  did 
not  forget  to  ask  for  a  live  Christmas  baby ; 
indeed  she  stayed  so  long  on  her  knees, 
that  Paul,  from  his  little  room,  began  to 
whistle  and  hum  and  thump  on  the  head 
of  the  bed,  by  way  of  hurrying  her  up  and 
getting  somebody  to  talk  to. 

"  I  should  think  you  would  be  frozen, 
saying  such  long  prayers,"  he  said,  when  he 
saw  her  cross  the  room  to  put  out  the  light. 

"  Well,  I  am  not,"  she  answered,  as  she 
went  back  to  bed.  "  And  I  should  like  to 
be  let  alone  sometimes." 


THE  CHRISTMAS  SISTER.  97 

"  Oh,  you  would,  would  you  ? "  remarked 
Paul.  "  Well,  that's  natural.  I  do  myself, 
generally.  But  you  see  it's  plaguy  lone- 
some lying  here  in  the  dark,  and  I  want 
somebody  to  talk  to." 

"  If  mamma  had  asked  me  not  to  say 
plaguy,  I  don't  think  I  should  have  done 
it — Christmas  Eve,  at  all  events." 

"Why  not  Christmas  Eve,  more'n  any 
other  time,  I'd  like  to  know  ? "  asked  Paul, 
in  rather  a  gruff  way. 

Anita  could  not  tell  exactly,  so  she  did 
not  say  anything.  She  had  a  sort  of  feeling 
that  on  Christmas  Eve  people  ought  to  be 
better  and  more  careful  to  do  right  than  on 
ordinary  days.  She  felt  as  if  the  Great 

• 

Birthday  was  a  time  when  it  seemed  very 
wicked  not  to  t}e  quieter  and  more  thought- 
ful than  usual,  but  she  did  not  feel  sure  that 
she  could  make  Paul  understand  her.  So 

5 


98  THE  CHRISTMAS  SISTER 

she  let  him  talk  on  about  his  presents  and 
his  plans  for  play  till  he  made  her  feel  very 
sleepy  and  stupid,  and  till  he  dropped  asleep 
himself.  Soon  the  starlight,  faint  and  soft, 
shone  into  the  two  silent  rooms  where  the 
two  children  were  lying,  hands  tucked 
under  cheeks,  fast  and  happily  asleep. 

Visions  of  sugar-plums !  Oh,  more  than 
that  went  dancing  through  their  heads. 
Through  Paul's  there  passed,  harnessed 
and  equipped,  unnumbered  pairs  of  hobby- 
horses, troops  of  grocery  carts  and  milk- 
men's wagons,  and  trains  upon  trains  of 
railroad  cars  and  engines.  Tops,  kites, 
balls,  paint-boxes,  and  picture-books ;  while 
through  simple  Anita's  there  was  the  one 

t  • 

only  thought  of  the  little  prayed-for  baby 
that  she  had  talked  about  vdth  her  mother 
before  she  came  to  bed. 

The  night  was  not  very  far  gone,  "mid- 


THE  CHRISTMAS  SISTER.  gg 

night  scarcely  passed  and  over,"  when 
Anita  awoke  with  a  little  start,  and  sitting 
up  in  bed,  rubbed  her  eyes  and  listened. 
Oh,  perhaps  it  was  a  dream !  but  what 
made  her  wake  up?  A 'little  faint  baby- 
cry,  and  then  a-  silence.  Anita's  heart  beat 
quickj  and  she  strained  her  ears  to  listen. 
Could  it  be  possible  she  had  her  wish  so 
soon !  She  had  expected  to  have  it,  to  be 
sure,  and  had  felt  certain  GOD  would  hear 
her ;  but  she  felt  a  great  wonder  that  it  was 
so  soon.  The  cry  did  not  come  again, 
though  she  listened  long  and  could  not  lie 
down  and  forget  it.  She  began  to  feel  as 
if  she  should  cry,  herself,  from  disappoint- 
ment ;  the  room  was  so  still,  and  trfe  idea 
that  it  was  all  a  dream  was  so  very  much 
more  sensible  than  any  other  idea.  She 
felt  very  chilly,  too,  and  her  shoulders  ached 
with  being  uncovered ;  but  she  would  not 


!OO  THE  CHRISTMAS  SISTER. 

lie  down  and  cover  them  under  the  bed- 
clothes. That  was  too  much  like  giving 
up. 

After  awhile,  a  long  while  it  seemed  to 
her,  there  was  a  little  stir  down-stairs,  and 
steps  in  the  hall,  and  then  the  hall-door 
opened  and  shut,  and  presently  a  carriage 
drove  away  from  the  gate,  and  all  was 
silent  again.  Anita  hardly  breathed.  Oh, 
if  some  one  would  only  come  up-stairs  and 
tell  her  what  it  was  all  about. 

Ten  minutes  after, '  some  one  did  come 
up-stairs  very  quietly,  as  if  not  meaning  to 
waken  her  and  Paul.  Her  father  came 
into  the  -room  and  passed  quietly  on 
through  it,  to  a  large  closet  that  opened 
out  of  it,  where  linen  and  medicines  were 
put  away.  He  held  a  candle  which  he 
shaded  with  his  hand,  and  Anita  saw  his 
face  was  rather  pale.  She  did  not  dare  to 


THE  CHBISTMAS  SISTER.  .   IOI 

speak  to  him,  and  he  did  not  glance  at  the 
bed  as  he  passed  through  the  room  and* 
stood  within  the  closet  door,  very  intent 
upon  what  he  had  come  to  look  for.  When 
he  had  found  it,  and  had  silently  closed 
the  door,  and  had  just  reached  the  hall, 
Anita's  courage  came  desperately  back. 
She  stretched  out  her  arms  anH  said : 

"  Oh,  dear  papa !   listen  a  minute ! " 

Her  father  gave  a  start  upon  hearing 
her  voice,  and  came  back  saying  in  sur- 
prise : 

"  Why,  Nita !  what  are  you  doing  awake 
at  this  time  of  night  ?  " 

She  looked  so  white  and  odd,  sitting  up 
in  bed  in  her  white  night-clothes,  and  her 
eyes  were  so  large  and  eager,  that  her 
father  felt  sure  she  was  ill,  or  had  been 
frightened 

"What   is   it,  my  little  girl?"   he  said 


IO2  THE  CHRISTMAS  SISTER. 

again,  sitting  down  on  the  bed,  and  put- 
ting his  arm  around  her. 

"Tell  me,"  she  whispered,  "has  it  come? 
I  thought  I  heard  it." 

"  Has  what  come  ? "  he  said,  inquir- 
ingly. 

"  My  baby,  papa.  Oh,  I  thought  I 
heard  it  cry." 

And  the  tears  came  into  her  eyes  as  she 
turned  away  her  face. 

The  father  gave  a  half-smile,  and  was 
silent  a  moment,  and  then  whispered : 
"  Come  and  see." 

He  lifted  herein  his  arms,  and  wrapping  she 
bare  feet  up  in  the  folds  of  her  night-gown, 
carried  her  through  the  dark  and  silent 
house.  Anita  felt  as  if  her  breath  would 
.never  come  again;  she  clung  around  her 
father's  neck,  and  almost  wished  she  had 
not  waked  up  at  all. 


THE  CHRISTMAS  SISTER.  103 

*  He  pushed  softly  open  the  door  of  her 
mother's  room.  There  was  a  very  dim 
light  in  it,  but  she  caught  sight  of  her 
mother  on  the  bed,  lying  very  quiet,  and 
some  one  else  by  the  fire,  she  did  not 
know  who,  or  care.  For  while  her  father 
said  hush,  in  a  very  low  whisper,  he  car- 

* 

„  ried  her  to  a  little  crib — the  crib  thsft  used 
to  stand  in  the  nursery,  now  all  fresh  with 
light,  white  drapery — and  pulling  the  cur- 
tains softly  back,  he  held  her  down  to  kiss 
a  soft,  pink,  sleeping  baby !  Anita  gave  a 
gasp  of  amazement  and  delight,  and  clasp- 
ed her  hands  together- as  she  bent  down 
and  laid  her  cheek  against  its  warm  face. 
She  could  have  screamed  and  laughed  with 
delight,  only  she  shook  so,  and  felt  more 
like  hiding  her  face  on  the  pillow  and 
crying  with  happiness.  Oh,  how  wonder- 
ful GOD  wasl  Oh,  what  a  Christmas! 


IO4  TEE  CHRISTMAS  SISTER.  fc 

Oh,  what  a  good  girl  she  was  going  to  be ! 
She  would  never  say  a  cross  word  to  any 
one  after  this!  She  would  love  every- 
body ;  she  would  be  just  like  mamma,  and 
mend  Paul's  mittens  for  him  every  day 
if  he  wore  holes  in  them  for  ever. 

She  gave  the  baby  another  kiss  as  silent 
as  the*  first,  and  then  her  father  lifted  her 
up  and  carried  her  back  to  her  room  in  a 
sort  of  dream. 

He  laid  her  down  on  the  bed,  and  gave 
her  a  good-night  kiss,  and  smiled  at  her 
expression  of  perfect  satisfaction.  She  did 
not  want  to  be  anything  but  awake  after 
that;  she  lay  still  and  happy  till  it  was 
almost  dawn,  and  then  fell  asleep  with  the 
soft,  warm  feel  of  the  baby's  cheek  still  on 
her  lips,  and  the  happiest  love  filling  her 
innocent  heart. 

Dear  little  Anita !     The  Christmas  bells 


THE   CHRISTMAS  SISTER. 


105 


never  wakened  a  better  nor  a  happier 
child  than  she;  and  the  little  Christmas 
sister  was  a  gift  of  which  she  never  tired, 
a  plaything,  and  a  pleasure  that  never  wore 

out  nor  faded. 

S* 


THE  BOY-REGIMENT. 


THE 

BOY-REGIMENT. 


CHAPTER  I. 

THE   DRILL-ROOM. 

"  Where  two  or  three  are  gathered  together  in  My  name, 
there  am  I  in  the  midst  of  them." 

KING,  noble  and  powerful, 
and  feared  of  all  his  enemies, 
once  sent  a  commission  to 
some  of  his  officers  to  recruit, 
for  his  service,  a  new  regiment  to  be 
added  to  the  ranks  of  his  great  army. 
Not  a  regiment  of  men,  well-grown 
and  hardy,  but  a  regiment  of  boys  of  all 
ages  and  conditions.  The  officers  very 


I  xo  THE  BOY-REGIMENT. 

likely  wondered  what  the  king  wanted  of 
children,  encumbering  the  movements  of 
the  army,  and  in  need  of  so  much  drill- 
ing; but  they  were  too  well-trained  and 
faithful  servants  to  express  their  wonder, 
or  allow  it  to  hinder  their  obedience.  But 
when  they  heard  this  little  army  were  to  be 
the  chosen  attendants  of  the  king,  were  to 
surround  his  person  and  stand  continually 
in  his  presence,  their  amazement  grew  much 
greater,-  and  they  thought :  "  We  must  be 
careful  indeed  in  the'  training  of  these  boys, 
and  must  seek  out  from  all  quarters  the 
strongest  and  best-grown  lads  that  can  be 
found." 

But  on  reading  the  commission  again, 
they  discovered  the  choice  did  not  lie  with 

* 

them.  They  must  summon  all— the  children 
of  high  and  low,  rich  and  poor,  the  youngest 
and  weakest  as  well  as  the  best-grown  and 


THE  BOY-REGIMENT.     *  III 

strongest — and  give  them  the  clearest  in- 
structions they  could,  and  the  most  faithful 
training,  and  the  king  himself  would  watch 
their  progress,  and  select  from  all  the  host 
the  ones  who  pleased  him  most. 

Great  interest  all  the  parents  felt  in  this 
announcement-,  and  they  very  eagerly 
brought  their  children  forward,  and  had 
their  names  enlisted  among  the  candidates 
for  the  royal  favor.  "  There,  children," 
some  of  them  said,  "  we  have  done  our  part ; 
we  have  given  you  the  chance.  It  will  be 
your  own  fault  if  the  king  rejects  you."  • 

But  the  wiser  parents  knew  their  part 
was  not  done  ivhen  they  had  enlisted  their 
children  under  the  king's  banner;  they 
knew  they  must  assist  and  enforce  the 
teaching  of  the  officers,  and  daily  keep 
alive  the  ambition  they  had  kindled. 

On  a  certain   day  in   every  week   the 


112  THE  BOY-REGIMENT. 

children  w.ere  told  they  must  assemble  at  a 
certain  place  and  receive  the  instructions 
of  their  officers,  and  be  drilled  in  all  sol- 
dierly exercises,  and  be  made  ready  for  the 
Grand  Review  that  at  some  unknown, 
though  not  distant  day,  the  king  would 
hold  in  person,  when  from  'their  ranks  he 
would  select  his  favorites. 

But  strangest,  most  exciting  of  all,  was 
the  intelligence  that,  in  the  great  drill-room 
where  they  were  to  meet,  the  king  himself 
had-  promised  to  be  present,  observing  and 
overlooking  them,  seeing  all  .they  did,  and 
noting  their  obedience  or  disobedience  to 
the  officers  placed  over  them,  and  judging 
by  their  every-day  behavior  whether  they 
would  in  time  be  fit  for  his  attendants. 
Though  he  was  to  see  them,  however,  they 
were  not  to  see  him;  hidden  from  their 
sight,  he  was  to  watch  them  silently,  and 


THE  BOY-REGIMENT.  i  i  3 

they  never  were  to  stand  face  to  face  before 
him  till  the  day  of  the  Grand  Review. 

And  from  cottage,  hall,  and  hovel  the 
children   flocked,  jostling    each    other    in   . 
their  eagerness,  and  pressing  forward  very 
manfully  into  the  service. 

At  first;  but  it  is  very  easy  to  be  in 
earnest  at  first,  every  child  and  man  and 

* 

woman  knows.  It  is  quite  another  part  of 
speech,  being  in  earnest  about  a  thing  when 
the  thing  has  got  to  be  an  old  story,  and 
has  lost  the  spice  of  novelty.  Persevering, 
going  straight  on,  whether  the  duty  has  got 
to  be  tiresome  or  not,  just  because  it  is 
a  duty — that  is  the  test  of  real  earnest- 
ness. 

The  drill-room  was  a  great  dark  building, 
with  an  echoing  stone  floor  and  a  vast 
carved  roof,  so  far  above  their  heads  that  it 
made  the  little  children  who  came  from  low, 


THE  BOY-REG1MENT-  * 

thatched  cottages  and  dingy  cabins  dizzy 
to  look  up  at  it. 

At  one  end  of  this  building,  in  a  space 
railed  off  from  the  rest,  the  officer  or  offi- 
cers of  the  king  stood,  and  read  to  the 
children  the  message  of  the  king  out  of  a 
great  book  that  contained  the  record  of 
what  the  noble  army  they  were  to  join  had 

9 

already  done,  and  what  the  king's  will  was, 
and  what  kind  of  service  pleased  him  best. 
On  entering  the  building,  the  children 
were  taught  to  make  a  deep  reverence  or 
salutation,  just  as  if  they  really  saw  the 
king,  who  saw  them,  and  to  take  their  places 
among  their  comrades  silently  and  in  order, 
and  to  listen  reverently  and  obediently  to 
all  their  officers  read  to  them  out  oT  the 
book  of  records,  and  to  regard  all  they  com- 
manded them  to  do,  just  as  if  the  king  him- 
self spoke ;  for  the  king  had  placed  them 


THE  BOY-REGIMENT.  1 1 5' 

over  the  children,  instead  of  training  them 
himself;  and  any  disobedience  or  disrespect 
to  them,  was  disobedience  and  disrespect 
to  him. 

The  place  too,  considering  he  was  in  it, 
though  they  did  not  see  him,  it  became 
their  duty  to  regard  with  reve'rence  and  to 
occupy  with  decorum  and  silence. 

At  first,  this  seemed  easy  and  natural 
enough.  The  children  held  their  breath 
with  awe,  and  trod  on  tiptoe  down  the 
echoing  pavement,  and  hardly  moved  a 
muscle  from  the  time  they  came  till  they 
went  away,  when  they  first  began  their 
services.  The  idea  that  the  great  king  of 
whom  they  had  heard  so  much,  was  look- 
ing down  upon  them,  and  watching  every 
*  glance  and  movement,  made  them  fearful 
lest  they  should  displease  him  with  care- 
lessness or  haste ;  and  their  conduct  was  so 


1 1 6  TEE  BO  7-REOIMENT. 

orderly,  and  their  discipline  so  promising, 
the  officers  began  to  hope  there  would  be 
very  few  rejected  when  the  Day  of  Review 
should  come. 

But  week  after  week  passed,  and  the  king 
did  not  summon  them  to  the  court  to  be 
reviewed;  and  week  after  week  the  drill 
was  gone  through,  and  the  orders  read,  and 
the  children  disciplined. 

And  a  great  change  since  the  first  as- 
sembling seemed  .to  have  come  over  the 
little  multitude.  There  was  not  much 
eagerness  or  enthusiasm  now  about  being 
early  on  the  ground  ;  there  were  very  lag- 
ging steps  in  going  to  the  drill,  and  much 
loitering  by  the  way;  and  when  entering 
the  building,  some  forgot  their  reverence 
altogether,  and  pushed  on  carelessly  into 
their  places,  and  some  made  it  thoughtlessly 
and  hastily,  and  jostled  their  companions, 


TEE  BO  Y-REGIMENT.  117 

and  whispered  when  the  reading  was  going 
on,  and  seemed  to  fo'get  there  was  any 
presence  more  august  than  that  of  their 
officers  among  them,  and  anything  more 
serious  to  be  feared  than  their  displeasure. 

For,  in  truth,  it  is  a  difficult  thing  to  be- 
lieve in  what  we  cannot  see,  and  the  king 
knew  this  beforehand ;  and  knew  the  surest 
way  of  testing  his  little  servants'  faith  and 
obedience,  would  be  by  obliging  them  to 
serve  a  king  they  could  not  see,  and  prom- 
ising them  a  reward,  of  which  his  promise 
was  the  only  security  they  had. 

And  after  awhile  some  of  them  began 
to  doubt  in  their  hearts  whether  the  king 
were  there  at  all ;  and  some  of  them,  not 
seeing  him,  grew  forgetful  altogether  tha* 
they  had  ever  been  told  he  would  be  there ; 
and  others,  finding  he  did  not  punish  them 
or  take  any  notice  of  their  negligences 


1 1  g  THE  BO  Y-REGIMENT. 

began  not  to  care  whether  he  were  there 
or  not,  and  to  think  it  made  no  difference 
whether  he  saw  them  or  not,  or  whether 
they  behaved  well  or  ill. 

While  a  few — alas !  that  it  was  but  a  few 
— kept  their  king's  promise  and  presence 
always  before  their  eyes,  and  never  forgot 
what  he  had  said,  and  what  they  would  lose 
by  their  irreverence,  and  came  as  early  and 
obeyed  as  faithfully,  and  felt  as  reverently 
the  last  day  as  the  first ;  they  had  a  good 
deal  of  ridicule  to  bear  for  this,  and  very 
little  reward  from  their  officers,  but  quiet 
approval  and  silent  encouragement,  for  it 
was  the  king's  command  that  in  the  drill- 
ing of  the  boys  there  should  be  no  pun- 
ishments inflicted,  and  no  rewards  held 
-out.  The  honor  of  serving  him,  the  fear 
of  displeasing  him,  were  to  be  their  only 
stimulants  and  warnings. 


THE  B  0  7-REGIMENT.  1 1  g 

•The  kind  and  faithful  officers  had  a 
weary  task ;  the  insubordination,  the  care- 
lessness, the  irreverence  the  boys  dis- 
played, made  them  tremble  for  the  wrath 
they  were  bringing  on  trffeir  thoughtless 
heads.  "  Oh,  that  they  were  wise ;  that  they 
knew  the  things  that  would  profit  them," 
they  thought  despairingly,  as  they  warned 
and  exhorted  and  counselled  them  in  vain. 
The  headstrong  little  rebels,  one  encour- 
aging the  other,  turned  a  deaf  ear  to  all 
their  warnings ;  and  fearing  only,  and 
caring  only,  for  the  things  that  are  seen, 
forgot  and  scorned  the  things  that  are 
unseen,  but  are  eternal.  Why  should  they 
care  any  more  for  that  building  than  for 
any  other  ?  Why  should  they  be  more 
careful  of  their  looks  and  gestures  there, 
than  when  they  were  at  home?  If  the 
king  saw  them,  his  silence  proved:  he  did 


1 20  THE  B0  Y-REGIMENT. 

not  care ;  and  if  he  did  not  see  them,  they 
were  foolish  to  be  so  much  in  awe.  It 
would  be  time  enough  to  grow  more  or- 
derly and  learn  the  discipline  prescribed, 
when  the  Day  of  Review  was  near  at  hand. 
So  the  souls  of  the  foolish  children  grew 
hardened  and  more  full  of  folly ;  and  the 
souls  of  the  faithful  children  grew  gentler 
and  more  full  of  reverence ;  and  the  Great 
Day  drew  on,  and  dawned,  when  they 
looked  least  for  it 


ZEE*  BO  Y-REGWENT.  1 2  J 


CHAPTER  II. 

THE   GRAND   REVIEW. 

"  Ye  know  neither  the  day  nor  the  hour  wherein  the 
Son  of  Man  -cometh." 

HEN  the  sudden  summons 
to  appear  before  the  king 
came,  it  took  all,  officers  as 
well    as   children,  by  surprise. 
There  was  not  a  moment  to  prepare, 
not  an  instant  to  glance  over  the 
order-book  and  snatch  another  read- 
ing of  the  neglected  regulations ;  no  time 
to  compose  their  fears  or  recall  their  in- 
structions ;  but  from  the  ill-spent  hours  in 
6 


122  THE 

the  drill-room,  they  were  to  march  to  the 
court  of  the  king,  and  appear,  unprepared, 
before  his  august  majesty. 

With  beating  hearts  and  white  faces 
and  faltering  steps  they  took  up  their 
march ;  no  loitering,  no  jostling,  no  trifling 
this  time  on  their  way  to  the  king's  pre- 
sence. One  would  have  thought  they  had 
never  been- in  it  before,  they  were  so  startled 
at  the  prospect  of  meeting  him.  It  was 
difficult  to  realize,  these  were  the  same 
children  who  had  come  before  him  every 
week  for  such  a  long,  long  time.  Their 
terror  now  showed  they  had  not  believed 
that  they  "had  indeed  been'  in  his  presence 
in  the  drill-room. 

But  how  the  scales  seemed  turned ! 
The  boys  who  had  always  been  so  fearful 
and  so  silent  in  the  house  of  discipline, 
now  seemed  bright  and  full  of  hope.  This 


THE  BO  Y-REGIHENT.  123 

summons,  indeed,  was  anything  but  dread-, 
ful  to  them.  They  had  looked  for  it  so  . 

long,  and  thought  of  it  so  often,  it  was  not 

• 
startling  when   it   came.     They  were  not 

sure,  of  course,  they  would  be  chosen ;  they 
were  humble  and  full  of  wonder  at  the 
king's  goodness  in  even  letting  them  try  • 
but  their  desire  to  see  him,  and  to  hear  his 
gracious  voice,  overcame  and  subdued 
their  doubts  and  fears,  and  with  firm  tread,  • 

.  .  • 

and  earnest,  erect  carriage,  they  followed 
their  half-sad  leaders  to  the  royal  presence. 
Ah !  when  they  entered  that  glorious 
court,  it  was  only  eyes  that  had  no  shame 
in  them,  that  could  bear  the  blaze  of  splen- 
dor that  streamed  upon  them.  Confused, 
blinded,  terrified,  the  bewildered  and  undis- 
ciplined of  the  ranks  faltered,  held  back,  and 
fell  into  disorder,  till,  drawn  on  by  mortal 
terror,  they  crept  trembling  into  the  pre- 


I  2 4  THE  BO  Y-REGIMENT 

sence  they  had  so  long  scorned  and 
slighted. 

No  fear  that  the  reverences  •  this  time 
would  not  be  deep  enough ;  down  to  the 
very  pavement  of  the  glittering  court  the 
astounded  children  bent;  the  careless, 
wandering  eyes  that  before  had  been  so 
busy  with  all  things  that  concerned  them 
not,  were  fastened  in  awful  penitence  and 
Unavailing  anguish  on  the  ground;  there 
was  no  need  to  caution  them,  to  warn  them 
where  they  were. 

They  dared  not  look  up  and  see  the  vast 
army,  drawn  up  on  each  side  of  the  Great 
White  Throne  before  them — nor  the  white- 
robed  throng  who  watched  their  slow  ad- 
vance ;  and  the  king  whom  they  had  not 
believed  in,  was  a  terror  they  could  not 
face.  Oh  if  they  could  fly,  if  they  could 
hide  themselves  from  the  sight  of  all  that 


THE  BOY-REGIMENT.  125 

glory — the  glory  they  might  have  won  and 
would  not,  and  that  now  was  worse  than 
the  blackest  darkness  to  them.  What  ter- 
ror smote  them  when  they  called  to  mind 
the  wasted  hours  of  inattention  and  sloth 
and  disrespect  that  they  had  passed  in  the 
.drill-room.  What  would  they  not  have 

•  • 

given  to  have  lived  them  over  again. 
With  what  shame  they  remembered  their 
careless  gestures,  their  inattentive  indiffer- 
ence to  the  reading  of  the  law,  in  the  very 
presence  of  the  king  before  whose  open 
glory  they  now  fell  humbled  and  undone. 
If  they  had  only  believed;  if  they  had 
only  reflected. 

It  needed  not  that  the  troops  should  be 
drilled  and  marshalled  before  the  eye  of 
the  attentive,  all-seeing  king.  One  glance 
down  their  ranks  would  have  told  the 
story  to  an  eye  less  wise  than  his.  The 


126  THE  BOT-REGIMENT: 

bowed  heads,  tne  stammering  lips,  the 
faltering  steps  of  some,  and  'the  clear, 
bright  look  of  the  upturned  faces  of  the 
others,  that  seemed  already  to  have  caught 
the  glory  shining  from  the  throne,  marked 
who  had  earned  his  favor,  and  who  had 
scorned  to  earn  it. 

And,  in  the  glory  of  that  place,  their 
perfected  love  had  cast  out  fear ;  their  eyes 
grew  accustomed  to  the  brightness,  their 
feeble,  childish  pulses  beat  with  a  new 
strength  and  vigor ;  what  had  been  begun 
in  weakness  they  could  now  pursue  with 
more  than  human  power.  They  had  be- 
gun, to  serve  him  with  fear  and  trembling ; 
they  would  go  on  serving  him  through  all 
eternity  with 'certain  joy  and  still  increasing 
love. 

And  out  of  his  presence,  out  of  the 
sight  of  their  happy  comrades,  the  wretch- 


THE  BO  Y-REGIMENT.  12  J 

ed  loiterers  were  driven.  With  no  guides., 
no  leaders  now,  but  drawn  on  by  -their 
doom,  they  left  the  splendor  of  the  royal 
court  and  crept  trembling  away  into  the 
darkness  and  chill  that  was  falling  without , 
and,  numb  and  hopeless,  wandered  through 
the  dismal  night  that  never  changed  to  day 
with  them. 


WILLY  COLLINS. 


WILLY  COLLINS. 


ILLY'S  so  cross,  there's  no 
•sitting  near  him,"  muttered 
Johnny  Otley,  in  great  dis- 
gust, slamming  down  the  lid  of 
his  desk,  and  thrusting  out  both 
elbows  as  he  bent  over  his  book. 
Willy  tried  to  keep  from  crying  as 
he  withdrew  out  of  the  reach  of  the  tattered 
elbow  entrenching  on  his  desk,  and  leaned 
against  the  wall  (his  was  the  corner  seat), 
and  held  his  spelling-book  up  before  his 
face,  and  didn't  say  a  word  as  long  as  he 
could  stand  it.  But  he  couldn't  stand  it 


WILLY  COLLINS. 

long.  Leaning  against  the  wall  made  his 
shoulder  ache,  and  sitting  on  the  edge  of 
the  chair  made  his  lame  hip  ache,  and  his 

I 

head  had  been  aching  so  all  day  he  hadn't 
learned  his  lesson ;  and  he  knew  he  should 
be  kept  in;  and  altogether  he  was  so 
wretched  he  had  to  give  up ;  and  upon  the 
low,  monotonous  buzz  of  the  school-room 
there  rose  a  distinct  s*ob.  The  children 
dropped  their  books  and  looked  around  to 
see  where  the  sound  came  from. 

"Why,  Willy!"  cried  Mrs.  Johnson, 
getting  up  and  going  over  to  his  corner, 
"  why,  what's'  the  matter  with  you ;  why 
are  you  crying,  child  ? " 

Now  poor  little  Willy  didn't  exactly 
know  why  he  was  crying,  except  that  he 
couldn't  help  it;  and  as  Johnny  Otley's 
outrage  on  his  feelings  had  been  the  drop 
that  had  made  his  cup  of  wretchedness 


WILL  T  COLLINS.  133 

overflow,  he  naturally  felt  as  if  that  was 
the  whole  cause  of  his  trouble  ;    and,  after 
a  moment  of  sobbing,  stammered  out : 
"John — Johnny's  ugly  to  me." 
"  John,"    Mrs.    Johnson    said,  .very   se 
verely,  "  I  am  ashamed  of  you  if  you  are 
unkind  to  a  poor  lame  boy  like  Willy,  who 
can't  defend  himself.     I  should  think  you 
would  be  gentle  to  him,  and  do  everything 
to  help  him." 

Now  Johnny,  in  the  .main,  was  a  very 
good-natured  boy ;  and  except  that  he  was 
so  well  and  strong  and  loud  that  he  almost 
drove  his  little  neighbor  wild  with  his  spi- 
rits and  his  restlessness,  he  was  never  par- 
ticularly unkind  to  him — indeed,  till  to-day, 
had  rather  supposed  that  he  had  done 
enough  for  him,  to  make  him  very  grateful. 
But  Willy  had  been  extremely  trying  all 
day ;  could  neither  sit  still  nor  let  anybody 


134  WILLY  COLLINS. 

else  move;  could  not  bear  a  word  said  to 
him,  and  had  fretted  at  nothing,  so  Johnny 
thought ;  and  at  last  he  had  been  provoked 
into  pushing  him  off  his  desk  in  the  very 
questionable  way  described  above.  Johnny, 
with  much  spirit,  blazed  out  into  a  defence 
-of  his  conduct ;  denied  emphatically  the 
"  ugliness "  he  was  accused  of,  and  darted 
many  angry  glances  at  his  accuser.  Willy 
sobbed  afresh ;  several  of  the  children,  with 
officious  zeal,  entered  their  testimony  on 
the  subject,  which,  as  uncalled-for  as  it  was 
undesirable,  added  much  to  the  disturb- 
ance; and  Mrs.  Johnson,  in  despair,  was 
fain  to  cry  "  hush,",  and  taking  Willy 
by  the  hand,  to  lead  him  over  to  her 
desk  and  try  to  ascertain,  by  a  confiden- 
tial talk  with  him,  what  was  the  true  state 
of  the  case. 

But  Willy  was  in  just  that  condition  of 


WILLY  COLLINS.   '  135 

mind  through  which  it  is  hardest  to  sift 
any,  disputed  truth.  He  was  so  worked  up 
and  intensely  nervous  that  he  could  do 
nothing  more  satisfactory  than  to  sob  and 
protest  incoherently  about  Johnny's  cruel 
usage ;  and  Mrs.  Johnson  at  length  had  to 
give  up  all  idea  of  finding  out  who  was  in 
the  wrong,  and  to  give  to  Willy  the  be- 
ne'fit  of  the  doubt  existing  in  her  mind. 
She  saw  that  he  was  at  least  sick  and 
nervous  enough  to  require  very  gentle 
treatment ;  so  she  said : 

"  Well,  Willy,  you  may  go  home.  I 
know  you're  tired.  Here's  your  cap  and 
your  crutch.  You  needn't  stay  for  the 
singing  and  afternoon  service." 

"  I  don't  want  to  go,"  sobbed  Willy.  "  I 
want  to  stay  to  the  singing." 

"  Oh,  you  little  perverse,"  thought  Mrs. 
Johnson. 


136  WILL  7  COLLINS. 

"  Why,  Willy,"  she  said  aloud,  "  it's  only 
just  three  o'clock,  and  Mr.  Sutherland 
doesn't  come  till  half-past,  and  church 
doesn't  begin  till  four.  You'll  have  an  hour 
and  a  half  to  wait,  if  you  don't  go  now." 

Willy  shook  his  head.  "  I  don't  want  to 
go  home." 

"  Well,  then,  you  may  go  out  and  sit  in 
the  church  till  Mr.  Sutherland  comes,  or 
you  may  go  out  and  play  till  then.  Just  as 
you  please.  Here  is  your  crutch." 

Willy  looked  rather  bewildered  as  he 
grasped  his  crutch  and  took  his  cap  in  his 
hand.  Where  should  he  go'?  He  didn't 
care.  One  of  the  girls  opened  the  door  for 
him,  so  he  went  out  at  it  instead  of  going 
through  the  other  door  into  the  church; 
and  the  children  heard  trie  thump  of  his 
crutch  moving  slowly  down  the  alley  that 
led  out  into  the  street 


WILLY  COLLINS.  137 

It  was  a  soft,  warm  day  early  in  April"; 
the  Tuesday  in  Passion  Week.  It  had 
been  a  cold,  dreary  Lent,  and  the  mild 
weather  had  come  suddenly  and  debili- 
tatingly.  Kittle  Willy  felt  as  if  his.  life  and 
strength  had  all  gone  with  the  strong  winter 
weather;  he  felt  so  languid  and  miserable, 
he  only  wanted  to  lie  down  and  cry.  The 
sky  was  so  blue  and  bright  it  made  his  eyes 
ache  to  look  up  at  it;  the  sounds  of  the 
street,  when  he  got  out  into  it,  were  so  ' 
dreadful,  that  he  wished  himself  back  again 
into  the  quiet  alley,  .where  the  grey  walls 
of  the  church  stretched '  up  as  far  as  he 
could  see,  and  where  the  sounds  from  the 
outside  world  came  in  muffled  and  merci- 
fully dulled.  He  stood  leaning  on  his 
crutch  by  the  church  gate,  looking  listlessly 
out  into  the  street,  when  a  troop  of  boys 
came  shouting  past  from  the  great  school 


138  WILL  T  COLLINS. 

below.  Willy  naturally  shrank  back  from 
their  approach,  and  tried  to  push  the-  gate 
shut  before  they  reached  him ;  he  had  an 
instinctive  dread  of  big  boys  and  of  boys 
who  wore  nice-  clothes  and  looked  like  rich 
people's  children.  Even  when  they  did 
not  molest  him,  they  had  a  hateful  way  of 
looking  down  at  him,  and  taking  in  his 
tattered  clothes  and  unfortunate  deformity. 
He  always  knew  "  for  certain"  they  were 
turning  round  to  look  back  at  him,  even 
when  he  did  not -turn  his  head  to  see.;  they 
always  did;  and  it  made  him  hot  all  over, 
and  weak  and  sick  with  apprehension,  when 
he  saw  them  coming  towards  him. 

The  crowd  of  boys,  however,  had  some 
other  fun  in  view  to-day ;  they  did  not  take 
much  notice  of  the  cripple.  Only  one,  a 
great  bully  and  notorious  coward,  peered 
over  at  him,  and  made  a  horrid  face,  and 


WILL  T  COLLINS.  1 39 

the.n  ran  yelping  on  and  vaulted  over  the 
nearest  post,  and  waited  for  his  comrades 
to  come  up,  thinking  probably  he  had  done 
enough  to  show  the  little  invalid  what  boys 
with  two  strong  legs  have  it  in  their  power 
to  do.  . 

Now,  the  thing  of  being  looked  at  is  not 
a  killing  thing ;  and  a  "  horrid  face"  is  more 
unbecoming  to  the  maker  than  injurious  to 
the  one  at  whom  the  face  is  made,  under 
ordinary  circumstances.  But  Willy's  cir- 
cumstances, perhaps,  were  not  ordinary 
circumstances ;  his  nerves,  at  least,  were  not 
ordinary  nerves ;  and  for  several  minutes 
after  the  boys  ran  past,  he  stood  leaning 
against  the  railing,  too  sick  and  weak  to  go 
home,  or  to  go  back  into  the  alley  even. 

"  Why,  my  little  boy,  what's  the  .matter  ? 
What  are  you  doing  out  of  school  ? "  Mr 
Sutherland  said,  coming  in  at  the  gate. 


WILLY  COLLINS. 

Willy  started,  for  he  had  not  seen  him 
coming,  and  hung  his  head  and  stammered 
some  inaudible  reply. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  said  the  clergyman,  laying 
his  hand  kindly  on  his  head,  and  stooping 
down  to  listen.  "  Mrs.  Johnson  told  you 
you  might  go  home?  Well,  why  didn't 
you  go,  then  ? " 

"  I  didn't  want  to,"  Willy  whispered, 
hanging  his  head  still  lower. 

Mr.  Sutherland  thought  he  had  never 
before  heard  of  a  child  who  would  not 
accept  a  holiday ;  and  contrasted,  in  his 
mind,  little  Willy  hanging  around  the 
church  gate  listlessly,  with  the  whoop  and 
shout  with  which  he  used  to  hail  his  eman- 
cipation from  the  school-room,  and  the 
quick  way  in  which  he  was  wont  to  dispatch 
the  distance  between  that  point  and  home. 
"  But  perhaps  poor  Willy's  home  is  differ- 


WILLY  COLLINS. 

ent  from  the  one  that  attracted  me  so 
strongly,"  he  thought,  looking  down  at  the 
little  cripple's  heavy  eyes  and  flushed 
cheeks. 

"  You're  too  tired  to  stand  any  longer. 
Come  with  me,  won't  you  ?  "  Willy  said, 
"  Yes,  sir,"  and  took  his  hand,  and  followed 
him  into  the  vestibule. 

"  Will  you  come  with  me  into  the  school- 
room, or  will  you  go  and  sit  in  the  church  ? " 
asked  Mr.  Sutherland. 

"  I'd  rather  go  into  the  church,"  said  Willy. 

Mr.  Sutherland  opened  the  church  door, 
and  let  him  pass  in;  then  closed  it  and 
went  himself  into  the  vestry-room. 

How  still  and  solemn  the  church  was! 
The  roar  of  the  street,  and  all  the  hateful 
city  sounds,  in  that  silent  sanctuary,  were 
heard  only  as  a  faint  and  distant  hum. 
And  a  soft,  mellow  light  shone  in  through 


142  WILLY  COLLINS. 

the  rich  windows,  not  glaring  and  bright 
like  the  sunshine  outside,  but  so  subdued 
and  soothing,  Willy's  aching  eyes  were  grate- 
ful for  the  change  the  moment  he  came  in. 
Ah!  it  was  better  than  all  the  brightness, 
outside  for  a  sad  little  heart  like  his.  He 
loved  every  stone  in  that  church ;  he  felt 
more  at  home  in  it  than  anywhere  else  on 
earth.  It  was  his  city  of  refuge,  his  haven 
of  rest ;  the  only  place  where  he  was  sure 
of  being  let  alone ;  the  only  place  where  he 
would  neither  be  jostled  nor  worried  nor 
bullied.  He  often  came  '  early  to  school, 
long  before  service  began,  for  the  sake 
of  sitting  there  alone,  looking  at  the 
pictures  in  Mrs.  Johnson's  prayer-book,  or 
spelling  out  the  text  around  the  font,  or 
more  frequently  leaning  dreamily  back 
against  the  cushions,  and  gazing  up  at  the 
great  north  window,  and  wondering  faintly 


WILLY  COLLINS.  143 

whether  God  made  it,  or  whether  people 
made  it,  and  whether  they  didn't  get  it 
out  of  "  Revelation,"  if  they  did. 

If  anybody  had  asked  Willy  suddenly 
who  wrote  the  Book  of  Revelation,  or 
whether  it  was  in  the  Old  Testament  or 
the  New,  he  could  not  probably  have 
done  anything  more  satisfactory  than  to 
stamnler  and  blunder,  and  look  as  if  he 
wanted  to  cry;  for  he  was  very  far  from 
being  a  bright  boy,  and.  understanding 
quickly  what  was  taught  him.  He  had 
spent  too  much  of  his  short  life  moaning 
and  tossing  with  pain,  to  have  made  much 
progress  in  his  studies ;  and  his  over-exeit- 
able  imagination  and  over-sensitive  nerves 
retarded  rather  than  aided  the  development 
of  his  intellect. 

"  He  is  such  a  trying  child  to  manage, 
sir,"  said  Mrs.  Johnson  to  the  clergyman. 


1 44  WILL  T  COLLINS. 

"  He's  too  cross  for  anything,"  muttered 
his  companions. 

".Yes,  I  know  it,"  thought  the  young 
deacon.  "  And  yet,  for  all  that,  I  take 
strangely  to  the  boy.  I  think  I  like  him 
better  than  all  the  rest  of  the  children  put 
together,  strong  and  handsome  and  happy 
as  most  of  them  seem.  I  must  know  more 
of  him.  I  must  see  where  he  lives." 

Mr.  Sutherland  had  come  into  the 
parish  only  a  month  before,  and  was  but 
just  getting  acquainted  with  his  duties. 
He  had  taken  them  up  in  such  earnest, 
however,  very  prudent  people  said  he 
would  use  himself  up  upon  them  before 
many  years  were  over ;  he  Would  find  that 
burrn'ng  the  candle  of  life  at  both  ends  was 
a  very  doubtful  policy.  Perhaps  because 
the  extinction  of  that  candle  suggested  no 
terror  to  his  mind,  the  young  clergyman 


WILLY  COLLINS.  145 

did  not  heed  their  warnings,  and  worked 
on  with  unfainting  spirit  and  undying 
devotion.  Tw.o  services  a  day,  two  ser- 
mons a  week,  an  hour  every  afternoon  in 
the  parish  school,  personal  and  diligent 
visiting  of  and  care  for  the  poor  of  the  con-' 
gregation,  left  him  little  spare  time  or 
strength,  or  interest  to  spend  on  the  world 
that  condemned  him ;  and  though,  at  the 
end  of  that  long  Lent,  his  cheek  was  paler, 
his  eye  heavier,  and  his  step  slower,  than 
if  he  had  followed  the  counsels  of  worldly 
wise  and  prudent  people,  he  had  gained 
perhaps  as  much  upon  them  as  they 
thought  he  had  lost.  The  fasting,  which 
their  wisdom  rejected,  was  "  angels'  food  " 
to  his  soul ;  the  time  that  they  looked 
upon  as  wasted  was  enriching  him  with  a 
knowledge  and  a  clearness  of  soul  that 
nothing  but  personal  ministry  among 


146  WILLY  COLLINS.' 

"Christ's  poor  can  give;  the  talents  that 
seemed  to  them  thrown  away,  were  spent 
upon  the  very  work  that'  his  Master  came 
to  work,  and  which  His  servants  should 
not  dare  despise  ;  nor  will  they  despise  its 
rewards  in  that  day  when  the  Lord  makes 
up  His  jewels.  . 

It  did  not  seem  to  them  as  worthy  and 
effective  an  investment  of  time,  to  spend  an 
hour  in  the  school-room  teaching  the  chil- 
dren to  sing,  and  telling  them  the  sad  story 
of  Passion  Week,  as  to  pass  that  hour 
before  a  great  and  silent  crowd,  using  the 
eloquence  with  which  he  had  been  gifted,  to 
the  glory  of  God  and  the  advancement  of . 
Christianity ;  as  well  as  to  the  glory  of  his 
o\vn  intellect  and  the  advancement  of  him- 
self. But  as  the  souls  of  the  children  were 
placed  in  his  charge,  and  the  souls  of  the 
crowd  had  many  ministers,  perhaps  he  did 


WILLY  COLLINS.  147 

as  wisely  in  foregoing  the  probable  glory, 
and  the  possible  snare,  and  accepting 
silently  the  lo.west  work  as  the  meetest 
work  for  him. 

Mrs.  Johnson  thought  it  was  a  very 
pretty  sight  to  see  the  young  minister  with 
the  children  around  him ;  and  she  tied  her 
bonnet-strings  rather  slowly  and  went 
home  rather  reluctantly  in  the  afternoon 
when  he  came  to  take  her  place.  They 
never  sang  with,  so  much  spirit  as  when 
.  he  led  them,  and  they  never  were  so  quiet 
as  when  he  told  them  stories.  Why  were 
they  so  different  with  her,  thought  good 
commonplace  Mrs.  Johnson.  Why,  but. 
that  the  eloquence  that  would  have  fired 
the  sensation  sermon,  fired  the  children's 
story,  in  its  way,  and  made  it  so  much 
more  striking  than  Mrs.  Johnson's  story, 
as  the  sermon  would  have  been  more  strik- 


I ,| 8  WILLY  COLLINS.      . 

ing  than  the  sermon  of  the  Reverend  Dr 
Drawl. 

When  the  bell  began  to-  ring  for  after- 
noon service,  Mr.  Sutherland  left  the  chil- 
dren, and  put  on  his  surplice ;  then  calling 
them  around  him  again,  he  knelt  down 
and  read  a  preparatory  prayer,  and,  sobered, 
and  in  order  when  the  bell  stopped,  they 
.  followed  him  into  the  church. 

The  congregation  were  assembled,  the 
children  had  taken  their  seats,  and  Mr.  . 
Sutherland  was  just  entering  the  chancel, 
when,  glancing  down,  he  saw  Willy  lying 
fast  asleep  on  the  cold  stone  pavement,  with 
his  head  on  the  chancel  step.  The  bright 
red  spot  on  his  cheek,  and  his  heavy 
abandoned,  weary-  attitude,  told  plainly 
enough  that  it  would  be  a  fatal  rest  to  him 
if  it  were  a  much  longer  rest ;  and  shrink- 
ing only  a  second  from  the  wonder  of  the 


WILLY  COLLINS.  149 

congregation,  the  young  man  stooped 
down,  and  lifting  the  sleeping  child  in  his 
arms,  carried  him  over  to  the  transept 
where  the  children  sat,  and  laid  him  down 
so  tenderly  on  the  cushions  that  he  did 
not  wake.  It  was  a  very  simple  act  of 
charity,  very  simply  done ;  but  there  was  - 
something  in  the  doing  of  it .  that  struck  a 
chord  in  the  heart  of  every  one  that  saw 
it ;  a  chord  deeper  down  and  truer  than 
the  curiosity-chord,  and  the  conventional 
chord  that  threatened  to  vibrate  at  the 
unusual  sight;  and  a  great  many  people 
said,  as  they  went  out  of  church :  "  Who 
is  the  poor  little  cripple?  How  did  he 
come  to  be  asleep  on  the  chancel  steps  ?  " 

And  several  kind  ladies  lingered,  wish- 
ing to  see  him  when  he  came  out;  but 
Willy,  waking  much  bewildered  as  the 
children  rose  from  their  knees,  and  cover- 


150  WILLY  COLLINS. 

ed  with  confusion  when  they  told  him 
what  had  happened,  seized  his  crutch,  and 
the  moment  Mr.  Sutherland  left  the 
chancel,  hurried  down  the  aisle  and  out 
the  furthest,  door.  Mr.  Sutherland  was 
somewhat  disappointed  when  he  came  out 
of- the  vestry-room  to  find  him  gone;  but 
resolving  to  follow  him  in  the  course  of 
ah  hour,  he  dismissed  the  children,  and 
went .  to  read  the  Evening  Lessons  to  a 
bedridden  old  woman  in  a  remote  part  of 
the  rather  extended  parish. 

When  he  had  accomplished  his  task, 
and  received  the  half-querulous  thanks 
of  the  exacting  old  woman,  he  referred  to 
his  memorandum-book  for  the  number  of 
his  little  protege's  house,  and  started  in 
search  of  it.  It  proved  to  be  a  long  way 
off,  through  tangled  and  narrow  streets, 
quite  unfamiliar  to  him ;  full  of  squalid 


WILLY  COLLINS. 

children,  shameless  women,  brutal  men; 
full  of  the  thousand  sickening  sights  and 
"  dreary  noises  "  of  a  great  city's  by-ways 
and  alleys. 

"  What  boots  it  gathering  one  lost  leaf 
Out  of  yon  sere  and  withered  heap  ?  " 

he  thought,  disheartened  and  weary,  as 
the  littleness  of  his  own  power  ,  and  the 
vastness  of  the  work  around  him  came 
Into  his  mind.  • 

" — So  much  to  do, 
So  little  done,  such  things  to  be." 

It  required  all  his  faith  not  to  turn  away 
in  despair  from  what  was  so  stupendous 
and  so  overwhelming.  But  then,  again,- 
out  of  all  this  multitude,  if  he  saved  one 
soul,  might  it  not,  in  the  just  sight  of  Him 
who  made  it,  be  a  work  worth  his  whole 
life;  how  much  more,  the  self-denial  and 


152  WILL  T  COLLINS. 

discouragement  and  sadness  of  an  hour 
He  must  be  content -with  doing  the  little 
GOD  put  it  in  his  power  to  do ;  the  burden 
of  what  he  had  not  power  to  do  did  not 
rest  on  him. 

It  was  almost  dusk  when  he  paused 
before  the  number  he  was  in  search  of.  It 
was  a  tenement-house,  with  a  narrow,  dark 
do'or  that  swung  to  with  a  bang,  as  a  thick- 
set, ill-dressed  man  stepped  out  into  the 
street. 

"  Can  you  tell  me  whether  there  is  a 
family  named  Collins  living  in  this  house  ? " 
asked  Mr.  Sutherland. 

"Well,  I  expect  there  is,"  said  the  man, 
with  an  insolent  look  at  the  unmistakably 
clerical  dress  of  the  inquirer. 

"  Then  can  you  tell  me  what  floor  I  can 
find  them  on  ? "  said  Mr.  Sutherland,  with 
just  enough  sharpness  in  his  voice  to 


WILLY  COLLINS.  153 

indicate  the  man  under  the  clergyman,  and 
to  recall  his  hearer  to  a  more  respe'ctful 
bearing. 

"  You  won't  go  amiss  if  you  go  up  till 
you  can't  go  no  further,"  returned  the  man 
in  an  -improved  tone,  moving  off.  By 
which  Mr.  Sutherland  inferred  that  the 
Collins  .family  lived  on  the  top  floor  of  the 
building,  and -accordingly  he  entered  it; 
and  the  bad-tempered  door  banged  shut 
upon  him  in  its  ill-mannered  way ;  and  he 
began  the  ascent  of  the  narrow  stairs  in 
total  darkness.  Stumbling  up  that  crazy 
staircase  in  broad  day  would  have  been 
uncertain  and  unpleasant  work ;  for  all  the 
light  that  ever  came  upon  it,  came  from 
the  snappish  door  below,  or  the  capricious 
opening  of  the  dark  little  rooms  on  the 
successive  floors ;  but  stumbling  up  it  in 
the  dusky  twilight  of  an  early  spring  even- 

7* 


154  WILLY  COLLINS. 

ing,  was  just  as  far  from  pleasant  as  was 
possible.  The  baluster  shook  as  he  laid 
his  hand  upon  it ;  the  steps  creaked  omi- 
nously as  he  advanced;  the  atmosphere 
was  close  and  stifling;  low  sounds  of 
people  moving  and  talking  within  the 
closed  rooms  met  his  ear;  but  no  door 
opened,  and  no  ray  of  light  helped  him 

• 

on. 

"  I  don't  blame  Willy  for  liking  the 
church  best,"  he  thought,  as  on  the  third 
floor  he  stopped  to  recover  breath.  The 
man's  general  .direction,  "  to  go  till  he 
could  go  no  further,"  induced  him  to  per- 
severe ;  and  groping  along,  he  ascertained 
that  the  baluster  took  another  winding, 
and  went  up  another  pair  of  stairs.  Just 
at  the  foot  of  them,  however,  he  stopped 
suddenly,  for  a  low  moaning  struck  his  ear. 
Some  one,  from  the  sound,  must  be  lying 


WILL  T  COLLINS.  155 

* 

on  the  steps,  not  many  feet  from  where  he 
stood. 

"  Who  is  it,"  he  said,  pausing.  "  Is  any- 
thing the  matter  ? " 

No   answer,   however,  but   a  continued 

.crying.      By  this  time  he  knew  it  was  a 

child's  voice;  and  softening  his  own  to  suit 

it,  he  repeated  his  inquiries,  and  listened 

very  attentively  for  the  reply. 

Nothing  in  the  way  of  a  reply  came, 
however;  only  a  half  fretful,  half  de- 
spairing reiteration  of,  "  Mother,  mother, 
mother ! " 

"Shall  I  go  and  call  her?"  said  Mr. 
Sutherland.  "  Do  you  want  her  to  come 
to  you  ? " 

A  sobbing,  "  Yes,  I  want  her ;  I've  been 
a  wantin'  her  all  this  time,"  sounded  so 
like  poor  little  Willy's  pain-pitched  voice, 
that  he  exclaimed : 


156  WILLY  COLLINS. 

"Why,  Willy!     Is  it  Willy?" 

"  I  want  mother ;  I  want  her  right 
away." 

"  But  why  don't  you  go  up-stairs,  my 
little  man?  Does  your  mother  live  up- 
stairs ? " 

"  I  can't  get  up  there ;  I'm  so  tired ;  my 
*  leg  hurts  so ;  I've  been  a  callin'  her,  and  a 

callin'  her — and  she  won't  come." 

• 

"  She  don't  hear  you,  Willy ;  I'll  carry 
you  up  to  her ;  shan't  I  ?  " 

At  that  moment  a  door  beside  them 
opened,  and  a  dim  light  showed  Willy 
lying  with  his  head  on  his  arms,  about 
half-way  .up  the  stairs. 

"What's  the  wean  chaffin'  about,"  said 
the  plump  Scotchwoman,  who  had  opened 
the  door,  after  a  moment's  pause  of  curious 
staring  at  the  clergyman's  prompt  measures. 
1  Ah,  but  he's  a'  used  to  childer !  How 


WILLY  COLLINS.  157 

douce  he  hauds  him ! "  she  added,  in  admi- 
ration ;  then  in  answer  to  his  questions,  she 
confirmed  the  intelligence  of  his  first  in- 
formant, and  stood  gaping  after  him  as  he- 
went  up  the  stairs. 

"  Another  pair? "  he  asked  softly  of  Willy, 
and  there  was  a  sob  in  the  affirmative  from 
the  head  on  his  shoulder.  "  Which  door?  " 
he  asked  again,  when  they  had  reached  the 
last  landing-place.  And  Willy  indicated 
with  a  languid  hand  and  choked  voice  the 
door  in  the  rear. 

"  There,  my  man,  we're  home  at  last ! "  he 
said  in  a  cheerful  tone,  as  he  knocked  at 
the  door ;  but  what  a  hollow,  ghastly  sound 
the  word  home  had  in  that  connection. 
Could  it  be  possible  this  was  home  to  any 
one?  There  came  no  answer,  so  he 
knocked  again.  Again  none,  and  he  raised 
the  latch  of  the  door  and  pushed  it  open. 


.158  WILLY  COLLINS. 

"  Mother !    I've  been  a  callin'  you  this 
ever  such  a  time,"  murmured  Willy,  raising  ' 
up  his  head  as  the  light  appeared.   .  That 
Alight  showed  a  strange  scene. 

The  room  was  a  low,  scantily  furnished, 
but  tolerably  neat  one.  There  was  a  stove 
in  it-,  and  a  deal  table  and  a  bed.  In  the 
only  chair-— a  broken  rocking-chair — a  baby 
was  tied,  whose  ghastly  white  face  and  heavy 
eyes  gave  miserable  pathos  to  its  constant 
wailing.  It  stretched  out  its  tiny  lean  arms 
to  the  new-comers,  and  welcomed  Willy 
home  with  a  cry  that  went  to  Mr.  Suther- 
land's heart.  Some  one  was  lying  on  the 
bed,  a  woman  apparently  ;  and  a  little  girl, 
standing  on  a  chair  beside  it,  was  stooping 
over  her  with  a  perplexed  and  frightened 
look.  The  child  was  not  more  than  five 
years  old,  very  much  like  Willy,  but  health- 
ier and  .prettier.  "  There  was  a  candle 


WILL Y  COLLINS. 

burning  on  the  shelf  above  that  she  had 

• 

evidently  just  climbed  up  to  light. 

"  Oh,"  said  the  little  girl,  with  a  half-de- 
precating,  alarmed  look  towards  the  clergy, 
man,  as  she  leaned  over  the  bed,  "  I  don't 
know  what  ails  mother ;  I've  been  a  good 
girl  all  day;  I've  been  quiet  all  day  long, 
and  rocked  baby,  and  swept  up  the  hearth, 
and  haven't  cried  a  time,  and  she  won't 
speak  to  me ;  she  lies  there  a  lookin'  at  the 
window,  and  she  won't  speak  a  word  to  me 
—mother ! " 

And  the  child  pulled  her  sleeve  again, 
and  looked  with  fear  into  her  rigid  face. 
Mr.  Sutherland  put  Willy  down  quickly 
beside  the  baby  and  approached  the  bed. 

"  My  little  girl,"  he  said,  soothingly,  "  I 
am  so  glad  you  have  been  good.  I  don't 
believe  your  mother's  angry  with  you. 
How  long  is  it  since  she  talked  to  you? " 


l6o  WILLY  COLLINS. 

"  I  don't  know,"  the  child  said,  begini.ing 
to  cry.  "  This  ever  such  a  time.  Take  me 
away ;  I'm  so  tired." 

"  Yes,  I'll  take  you  away,  poor  baby,"  he 
murmured,  turning  with  a  chill  of  horror 
from  the  touch  of  the  icy  hand  upon  the 
coverlet,  and  taking  the  terrified  child  in  his 
arms.  Her  teeth  were  chattering,  and  her 
eyes  were  shining  with  the  unnatural  ex- 
citement of  her  dreadful  vigil.  How  many 
hours  she  had  been  watching  beside  her  dead 
mother,  it  was  impossible  to  tell — not  less 
than  three  or  four — perhaps  since  morning. 

"  What's  the  matter  with  you  now,  Ellie, 
•that  you're  cryin'  so,"  faltered  Willy,  trying 
to  make  his  way  across  the  room,  but 
*  stumbling  and  nearly  falling  in  his  uncer- 
tainty and  alarm. 

"Wait,  Willy,"  said  Mr.  Sutherland; 
"don't  go  to  the  bed;  come  with  me  a 


WILLY  COLLINS.  l6l 

moment.  Come  down  for  a  little  while  to 
that  good  Scotchwoman's  room,  and  I  will 
tell  you  what  makes  Ellie  cry.  Come,  I 
know  you  will  do  as  I  ask  you." 

He  extended  his  hand  to  the  child ;  but 
with  a  vehement  gesture  he  refused  it,  and 
turned  towards  the  bed. 

"  Let  me  go  to  mother,"  he  said,  almost 
in  a  whisper,  with  a  face  perfectly  bloodless 
and  terror-struck ;  u  let  me  go ;  what  makes 
her  lie  so  still  ?  Oh,  I  will  speak  to  her ; 
I  will  go  to  her.  Oh,  why -won't  she  .wake 
up — mother ! " 

But  shrinking  terrified  from  the  touch 
of  her  hand,  burying  his  face  in  the  cover- 
let, the  child  broke  into  violent  sobs.  Ellie 
renewed  her  cries  at  this,  arid  clung  around 
Mr.  Sutherland's  neck,  and  begged  him  to 
take  her  away. 

"  Yes,  if  Willy  will  only  come,"  he  said, 


1 62  WILL 7  COLLINS. 

but  feeling  very  hopeless  about  his  coming, 
save  by  main  force.  He  was  in  a  perfect 
ecstasy  of  terror  and  grief — sobbing,  catch- 
ing his  breath,  shaking  hysterically  all 
through  his  little  frame.  "  It  will  kill  him," 
thought  the  clergyman,  infinitely  distressed, 
remembering  the  feverish  and  excited  state 
he  had  so  lately  been  in,  and  his  extreme 
fragility  at  all  times.  He  tried  to  put  Ellie 
down,  but  she  clung  to  him  vehemently, 
and  only  cried  the  more.  And  the  shrill, 
plaintive  moan  of  the  miserable  baby  in  the 
chair,  mixing  with  this  scarcely  more  intel- 
ligent, but  more  violents  grief,  seemed  to 
him. the  most  dreary  wail. of  orphanhood  he 
had  ever  heard.  He  pressed  his  hand  for 
a  moment  before  his  eyes,  then  sinking 
down  on  a  chair  beside  the  bed,  he  put  Ellie 
on  his  knee,  and  leaning  forward,  passed 
one  arm  round  Willy's  shoulder. 


WILLY  COLLINS.  •         163 

"  My.  boy,"  he  said,  "  is  this  the  fLst  time 
you  have  ever  seen  any  dead  person,  any 
body  out  of  which  the  soul  or  life  hacT  gone 
away  ? " 

The  child  shook  his  head  and  sobbed 
out  something  unintelligibly,  of  which  the 
clergyman  could  only  catch,  "  Father — last 
summer — " 

"  Then,"  he  said,  "  if  you  saw  him 
dead,  you  know,  I  suppose,  that  your 
mother  cannot  hear  you  speak,  or  see  you 
any  more  than  he  could,  after  the  life  had 
gone  away  from  him.  Now,  I  know  you 
are  dreadfully  unhappy  to  think  you  can- 
not 'make  her  hear,  nor  see  her  rise  and 
smile  again.  And  I  do  not  wonder  that 
you  cry  so  hard.  We  all  cry  when  GOD 
takes  those  we  love  away  from  us,  and  for 
a  while  we  feel  very  lonesome  and  miser- 
able without  them ;  but  GOD  takes  care  that 


1 64  WILLY  COLLINS. 

we  do  not  feel  so  always.  •  By  and  by  He 
begins  to  make  us  think  how  much  better 
off  tKey  are  than  when  they  were  here,  and 
how  soon  we  shall  go  to  them  in  the  plea- 
sant place  where  He  has  put  them;  and 
then  we  begin  to  wonder  that  we  cried  so 
at  first.  Ah!  my  poor  little  Willy,"  the 
young  man  said  with  a  strange  thrill  of 
tenderness  and  pathos  in  his  voice,  "  you  are 
not  the  first  who  has  refused  comfort,  and 
cried  on.  Would  you  ever  think,  Willy; 
that  I,  grown  man  as  I  am,  had  ever  cried 
like  you,  only  more  hopelessly  and  more  des- 
perately ?  That  only  a  year  'ago,  I  had  sob- 
bed just  as  you  are  sobbing  now,  and  thought 
I  should  never  be  happy  again  ?  Would 
you  believe  it  if  I  told  you  all  about  it  ? " 

The  boy  subdued  the  violence  of  his 
grief  for  a  moment,  and  seemed  to  listen. 

"  Come  to  my  knee  and  I  will  tell  you.' 


WILL  T  COLLINS.  165 

He  suffered  the  clergyman  to  draw  him 
towards  him,  and  his  sobs  grew  gradually 
fainter  as  he  became  absorbed  in  listening ; 
and  Ellie,  the  tears  standing  on  her  cheeks, 
looked  wondering  and  silent  up  into  his 
face. 

"  You  thought  it  was  a  long  way  home 
this  afternoon,  did  you  not,  Willy;  it 
seemed  as  if  you  would  never,  never  come 
in  sight  of  the  house  you  wanted  most  to 
see?  Well, 'it  was  a  longer  way  /  had  to 
go,  one  weary  night  that  I  am  going  to 
tell  you  about ;  and  I  was  more  tired  than 
you  were,  even.  I  had  been  travelling  all 
day,  since  morning  light ;  and  now,  I  found, 
it  was  growing  dark  and  there  was  a  long 
way  yet  to  go,  a  mile  and  more,  along  a 
dreary,  lonely  shore,  where  the  waves  were 
beating  up,  and  over  which  the  wind  was 
sweeping  cold  and  sharp.  Sometimes  it 


1 66  .  WILLY  COLLINS. 

came  so  strong  it  took  my  breath  away 
and  I  could  hardly  struggle  on  against.it 
I  had  almost  lost  my  courage  and  gone 
back  to  wait  for  morning  to  c<5me  before  I 
crossed  the  beach;  when  passing  around 
the  foot  of  the  high  cliffs  I  had  just 
reached,  I  caught  the  glimmer  of  a  light. 
Ah!  children,  think  how  glad  I  felt;  for  .that 
light  streamed  from  the  windows  of  a 
cottage  that  was  more  than  home  to  me. 
I  did  not  mind  the  wind,  nor  the  spray, 
nor  the  waves  after  that.  I  forgot  I  had 
been  tired,  or  had  thought  of  going  back ; 
you  don't  know  how  much  shorter  the  way 
seemed  to  be.  And  when  the  light  was 
just  above  me,  and  I  sprang  up  the  rocks 
and  reached  out  my  hand  'to  lift  the 
latchet  of  the  little  gate,  and  the  dog  came 
bounding  down  to  meet  me,  and  the  door 
opejied.  to  receive  me,  I  am  sure  I  thought 


WILLY  COLLINS.  1 67 

I  was  safely  through  the  darkness  and  the  . 
storm  and  the  weariness,  and  that  only 
happiness  waited  for  me  within.  But  oh ! 
my  children,  GOD'S  angels  had  been  there 
before  me,  and  had  taken  the  soul  of  her 
I  loved  best  in  that  home  away^my  dar- 
ling mother,  and  left  only  her  still,  pale 
body,  that  could  not  speak  to  me  nor 
answer  me.  She  could  not  welcome  me, 
nor  kiss  me,  nor  look  at  me — she  was  dead ! 
and  Willy,  I  cried  as  bitterly  at  her  bed- 
side as  you  have  cried  to-night — or  as  ever 
you  will  cry  while  you  live.  God  help  you ! 
But  it  didn't  last  always;  I  learned  to 
think  more  about  the  place  she'd  gone  to 
than  the  place  she'd  left."' 

"  Where  had  she  gone  to  ? "  Ellie  asked. 

"  Where  your  mother  has  gone,  we  trust, 
my  little  girl ;  to  that  quiet,  holy  Paradise 
the  Bible  tells  us  of,  where  there  isn't  any 


I  6  8  'WILL  T  COLLINS. 

trouble  or  pain,  and  where  it  is  all  peace 
and  pleasure ;  and  they're  .  waiting  there 
for  us.  They  love  us  just  the  same,  -and 
we  must  be  careful  to  do  always  right,  so 
that  we  may  go  "and  be  with  them  in  that 
'blessed -home,'  when  GOD  calls  us  to  meet 
them.  They  are  so  happy,  you  see,  we 
must  not  pain  them  by  doing  anything 
that's  wrong.  We'd  better  always  be  think- 
ing of  that— " 

"  But  didn't  she  ever  come  back?"  mur- 
mured Willy,  who  had  wistfully  waited  for 
that  hope. 

"  No,  child,  she  never  came  back ;  but  I 
am  going  to  her,  and  that  is.  far  better,  as 
you'll  think  by  and  by." 

w  But  I  can't  wait,"  he  began  hysteri- 
cally to  sob  again ;  "  I  want  mother ;  I  want 
her  right  away." 

Another  burst  of  grief  seemed  inevita- 


WILLY  COLLINS.  169 

ble;  but  Mr.  Sutherland,  following  up  the 
influence  he  had  gained,  at  length  won  the 
children  to  comply  with  his  desires,  and 
let  him  carry  them  down-stairs.  He  went 
with  them  directly  to  the  Scotchwoman's 

* 

door;  and  having  amazed  her  beyond  ex- 
pression by  depositing  them  'on^  the  bed, 
he  called  her  to  follow  him  back  into  the 
hall,  and  there  told  her  of  the  sad  scene  he 
had  found  up-stairs.  No  cautions,  how- 
ever, could  stifle  the  lively  expressions  of 
her  astonishment  and  condolence,  which 
instantly  brought  half  a  dozen  of  their 
fellow-lodgers  into  council,  and  they 
eagerly  hurried  up  to  the  chamber  of 
death.  Their  loud  lamentations  and  most 
inconsiderate  expressions  of  astonishment 
made  the  young  pastor  doubly  thankful  he 
had  succeeded  in  getting  the  children  out 
of  hearing  before  they  were  told  of  the 


I  70  WILL  Y  COLLINS 

calamity.  It  was  long  before  he  oould 
subdue  their  wonder  and  speculation 
enough  to  obtain  from  them  any  particu- 
lars of  the  circumstances  and  former  his- 
tory of  the  bereaved  little  family. 

Very  meagre  accounts  of  their  mode  of 
life,  however,  could  their  fellow-lodgers  • 
give.  They  had  come  there  to  live  some 
eighteen  months  before ;  it  was  under- 
stood they  had  moved  in  from  the  country, 
and  to  all  appearance  the  parents  were  a 
well-to-do  and  hard-working  pair.  They 
mixed  little  with  their  neighbors  in  the 
house,  however;  and  it  was  only  known 
from  casual  circumstances  that,  in  the 
course  of  a  few  months,  times  had  grown 
less  prosperous  with  them,  and  work  had 
failed.  Then  came  sickness  and  pinching 
distress,  and  then  the  father  died.  Poor 
Mrs.  Collins  had  struggled  on,  still  keep- 


WILL  T  COLLINS.  171 

ing  aloof  from  the  rest  of  the  lodgers,  and 
still  keeping  up  an  appearance  of  decency 
whenever  she  went  abroad,  or  sent  her 
children  out.  Of  late  she  had  been  ill, 
they  acknowledged  to  have  known;  but 
never  having  been  encouraged  to  offer 
their  assistance,  they  had  not  supposed  it 
needed  then ;  indeed,  it  was  not  difficult  to 
see,  a  sort  of  suppressed  hostility  had  existed 
between  the  reserved  countrywoman  and 
her  fellow-lodgers,  and  Mr.  Sutherland  was 
quite  prepared  for .  hearing  many  insinua- 
tions to  her  discredit.  But  to  do  the 
women  justice,  they  did  not  have  the  heart 
to  carry  thejr  petty  jealousies  and  suspi- 
cions beyond  the  boundary  of  death.  They 
acknowledged,  with  some  remorse,  they 
knew  no  ill  of  her ;  the  only  thing  they  had 
against  her  was,  she  felt  herself  too  good 
to  mix  with  them,  and  kept  her  children 


172  WILL  T  COLLINS. 

mewed  up  in  her  room  rather  than  let 
them  play  with  those  about  the  house. 
She  was  decent  and  peaceable ;  they 
hadn't  anything  against  her  but  her  pride. 
And  ah  !  they  murmured,  with  doleful  and 
wondering  glances  towards  the  bed,  there 
was  the  end  of  all  of  it.  She  little  thought 
eighteen  months  ago  she  would  die  in  a 
strange  garret,  without  a  friendly  hand 
to  close  her  eyes  or  to  hear  her  dying 
words. 

"  The  poor  bairn  watched  by  her  all 
day,"  said  the  Scotchwoman,  brushing 
away  a  tear.  "  Think  o'  that,  and  she 
not  five  years  auld." 

"  But  had  she  no  relatives  in  the  city ; 
no  one  upon  whom  she  could  have 
called  ? " 

No ;  the  women  had  good  authority 
about  that ;  for  at  the  time  her  husband 


WILLY  COLLINS.  173 

died,  she  had  told  Mrs.  Lesly,  who  went 
in  to  see  her,  that  she  had  no  friends 
within  a  thousand  miles,  and  no  kin  at  all 
to  whom  she  had  a  right  to  look  for  help. 

''Then  what  is  to  become  of  these  ba- 
bies?" Mr.  Sutherland  exclaimed. 

The  woman  muttered  something  about 
the  Almshouse,  and  the  city  being  obliged 
to  provide  for  them ;  but  thinking,  with  a 
shudder,  of  sujch  care  for  poor  Willy's 
sensitive  nerves,  the  young  clergyman  said 
quickly : 

"  I  think  it  will  not  be  necessary  to  ap- 
ply to  the  public  charity  just  yet.  Is  tnere 
no  one  among  you  who  will  take  charge 
of  them  for  a  few  days,  till  something  can 
be  decided  upon  ? " 

The  women  looked  doubtfully  from  one 
to  the  other,  and  did  not  make  any  direct 
answer  to  the  question,  only  muttered 


174  WILLY  COLLfflS. 

something  about  having  their  hands  full 
of  their  own  children,  and  not  having  the 
time  to  spare  to  look  after  three  babies 
that  wanted  so  much  done  for  them  as 
these  of  Mrs.  Collins  did.  Evidently  they 
did  not  understand  the  young  man  meant 
to  pay  them  liberally  for  their  board ;  and 
their  coldness  and  inhospitality  struck  him 
with  so  much  disgust,  he  resolved  he  would 
not  make  them  any  more  explicit  offer. 
"  If  they  have  not  humanity  enough  to 
shelter  the  poor  orphans  till  their  mother 
is  buried,  they  are  not  fit  guardians  for 
them  at  any  time,  and  I  will  not  bribe 
them  to  be  Christians.  There  must  be 
some  one  else  found  to  take  care  of  them." 
Nothing  strikes  a  person  of  habitual 
and  extended  charity  with  so  much  pain  as 
contact  with  selfishness  and  calculation ; 
and  the  young  minister,  perhaps,  did  not 


WILL  Y  COLLINS.  175 

make  sufficient  allowance  for  the  wsary, 
toilsome  lives  of  those  to  whom  he  had 
appealed.  They  had,  many  of  them,  a 
daily  struggle  to  fill  their  own  children's 
hungry  mouths ;  and  were  worn  down,  past 
tenderness  and  gentleness,  by  the  grinding, 
laborious  cares  pressing  constantly  upon 
j  them.  They  were  ignorant,  too,  in  a  great 
degree,  of  the  elevating  and  cheering  mes- 
sage of  the  Gospel,  which  softens  and  en- 
larges the  hearts  alike  of  rich  and  poor; 
and,  in  a  moment  of  more  deliberation,  Mr. 
Sutherland  would  probably  have  remem- 
bered their  slowness  of  charity  had  much 
to  excuse  it.  But  now  he  was  intent  only 
on  getting  the  poor  babies  into  some 
more  generous  and  kindly  atmosphere, 
and  could  not  pause  to  shqw  their  faults  to 
them,  or  to  excuse  them  to  himself.  . 
"  Then  there  is  no  objection,"  he  said, 


I  76  WILLY  COLLINS. 

"  to  my  taking  them  with  me  ?  The  boy 
belongs  to  my  school,  and  the  woman 
probably  was  a  member  of  .the  church  of 
which  I  now  have  charge;  so  that  J  do  not 
see  any  one  has  a  nearer  claim  to  them." 

No  one,  certainly,  the  women  all  agreed ; 
there* was  considerable  alacrity  in  the  re- 
sponse, and  Mr.  Sutherland  had  less  ad- 

i 

miration  for  them  than  ever.  Mrs.  Lesly, 
the  Scotchwoman,  struck  perhaps  with  some 
compunction  at  imposing  all  on  him,  who 
was  more  a  stranger  to  the  poor  friendless 

t 

woman  than  themselves,  said  she  would 
see  that  all  was.  done  that  was  necessary 
that  night,  and  that  she  would  watch 
beside  the  corpse  if  some  one  of  the  others 
would  stay  with  her.  There  were  many 
voices  eager  in  acquiescence ;  and  Mr. 
Sutherland,  handing  some  money  to  Mrs. 
Lesly,  told  her  he  would  come  in  the 


WILLY  COLLINS.  1  77 

morning  and  attend  to  whatever  else  was 
necessary. 

"  The  gude  young  men  ! "  she  murmur- 
ed, following  him  down-stairs.  Her  lad, 
Sandy  by  name  and  by  complexion,  was  dis- 
patched to  call  a  carriage,  while  his  mother 
bundled  the  little  orphans  up  in  what- 
ever remnants  of  garments  she  could  find 
about  their  desolate  apartment,  and  over- 
whelmed them  with  lamentations  and  ca- . 
resses.  The  baby  mercifully  had  fallen 
asleep;  so  that  when  the  carriage  came, 
Mrs.  Lesly  took  it  down,  and  laid  it,  a 
limp,  inanimate  bundle,  on  a  pillow  upon 
the  forward  seat,  while  Mr.  Sutherland  fol- 
lowing, with  Willy  in  his  arms  and  Ellie 
by  the  hand,  got  in  and  shut  the  door. 

"  Where  shall  I  go,  sir  ? "  coachee  asked, 
with  his  hand  upon  the  latch. 

"  Aye,  that's   the  question ,    where,  in- 

8* 


I  7 8  WILL  7  COLLINS. 

deed ! "  thought  Mr.  Sutherland,  with  an 
inward  groan,  but  audibly  he  said :  "  Wait 
a  moment,  my  good  man,"  and  with  great 
appearance  of  composure  took  out  his 
memorandum-book  and  turned  over  the 
leaves  in  the  desperate  hope  of  lighting  on 
something  that  would  guide  him.  His 
house-keeper  might  manage  one,  nay,  pos- 
sibly, the  two  elder  children ;  but  the  baby 
was  not  at  all  in  her  line,  and  the  thought 
of  keeping  it  over  night  would,  he  was  cer- 
tain, quite  upset  her.  Besides,  poor  Willy 
wanted  instant  and  discriminating  care; 
every  glance  at  him  added  to  the  young 
clergyman's  uneasiness.  There  was  not 
any  one,  among  his  congregation,  upon 
whose  assistance  he  could  surely  count  in 
such  a  case  as  this.  Many  were  still 
strangers  to  him;  and  among  the  few 
whom  he  reviewed  as  possible  coadjutors, 


WILLY  COLLINS.  179 

there  were  some  who  had  sick  children  of 
their  own,  and  others  who  had  neither 
strength  nor  experience  sufficient  for  the 
undertaking;  some  who  had  large  heart, 
>  but  little  house-room ;  and  a  few  who  Had 
plenty  of  house-room,  but  whose  hearts,  he 
judged,  he  might  find  less  commodious. 

In  the  meanwhile  time  pressed;  the 
coachman's  face,  by  the  light  of  the  street 
lamp  under  which  he  stood,  showed  signs 
of  wonder  and  a  slight  impatience. 

"  I  don't  want  to  shake  his  faith  in  me  as 
a  sane  man,"  thought  Mr.  Sutherland ;  "  but 
if  I  do  not  hurry,  he'll  soon  conclude  I 
don't  know  where  I  want  to  go  any  more 
than  the  poor  baby  on  the  pillow  does." 

A  gleam  of  hope,  'however,  at  that  mo- 
ment lighted  up  his  face ;  the  little  memo- 
randum-book had  proved  a  faithful  coun- 
sellor. On  a  stray  leaf  there  was  written 


I  So  WILLY  COLLINS. 

an  address  that  set  all  his  doubts  at  rest , 
and  he  turned  to  coachee  with  such  anima- 
tion, and  gave  him  the  direction  with  such 
a  changed  expression,  that  the  man's  mind 
misgave  him  about  the  propriety  of  follow- 
ing it.  As  he  assumed  his,  place  on  the 
box,  he  shook  his  head,  muttering : 

"  Something  wrong ;  something  wrong, 
it's  plain.  I  must  keep  my  eye  upon  him. 
He'll  be  flying  out-o'  the  window,  mor'n 
likely,  and  I  shan't  see  a  penny  o'  my 
fare." 

The  suspected  lunatic,  meantime,  was 
endeavoring  to  inspire  his  young  friends 
with  some  of  his  own  good  spirits. 

"  In  a  few  minutes,  children,"  he  said 
encouragingly,  "  we  shall  be  in  such  a  com- 
fortable place,  where  Willy'  and  Ellie  shall 
each  have  a  little  white  bed,  and  where 
there  will  be  a  kind  nurse  to  take  care. of 


WILL  T  COLLJNS.  \  g  1 

poor  little  baby.     And  you  must  be  hungry, 
too;  you  have  had  no  supper?"" 

No,  nor  any  dinner  either,  for  the  matter 
of  that ;  but  the  excitement  of  driving,  the 
wonder  of  the  change,  was  sufficient  to  sus- 
tain and  pacify  them  for  the  present;  and 
when  the  carriage  stopped,  they  were  a  most 
silent  little  trio.  Mr.  Sutherland  left  them 
for  a  few  moments  in  the  care  of  the  driver, 
who  looked  strangely  unwilling  to  be  left, 
and  went  up  the  steps  and  rang  the  bell. 
He  disappeared  behind  the  door,  which 
closed  after  him ;  but  in  a  very  short  time 
reappeared  again,  accompanied  by  a  lady 
in  a  white  cap  and  grey  dress,  who  took 
the  baby  kindly  in  her  arms  and  went  back 
again  into  the  house.  Mr.  Sutherland  paid 
the  driver,  who  seemed  much  relieved,  and 
drove  off  as  if  he  were  glad  to  be  well 
through  with  the  undertaking ;  then  taking 


1 82  WILLY  COLLINS. 

Ellie  in  his  arms,  and  leading  Willy,  he 
ascended  the  steps  and  went  into  the  house. 
-The  lady  was  already  unwrapping  the  baby 
from  its  many  and  tattered  envelopes,  and 
looking  at  it  pitifully. 

"  Poor  child ! "  she  said,  with  a  sigh. 
"  And  this  is  the  little  girl  ?" 

Ellie  hung  back  frightened,  and  began  to 
feel  desolate  and  strange.  But  the  lady  was 
so  kind  and  gentle,  they  soon  grew  recon- 
ciled. They  were  taken  into  a  room  where 
some  twenty  other  children  were  at  supper ; 
and  queer  and  strange  as  Ellie  felt,  she  yet 
succeeded  in  eating  more  than  Willy. 

Poor  Willy !  He  had  a  dreadful  night, 
and  the  kind  lady  watched  beside  him  till 
nearly  morning.  His  limbs  ached  so ;  his 
head  throbbed  so ;  he  was  so  burning  hot ! 
And  the  next  day,  when  Mr.  Sutherland 
came,  he  found  his  little  favorite  in  an 


WILL  Y  COLLINS.  I  g  3 

alarming  state — perfectly  delirious,  and 
with  a  high  fever.  For  several  weeks  it 
seemed  uncertain  whether  the  poor  boy 
would  ever  be  brought  out  of  it.  The  most 
careful  nursing  and  the  most  skilful  doctor- 
ing alone  could  have  conquered  such  an  at- 
tack as  his.  But  in  his  new  home  he  had 
both ;  and  when  at  length  he  rallied,  and 
began  again  to  look  about  him,  and  notice 
where  he  was,  he  asked  for  Ellie  and  for 
"  mother." 

Poor  boy!  It  cost  the  kind  lady  who 
had  nursed  him  many  a  pang  to  say  the 
truth  to  him ;  and  his  silent  crying,  with 
his  face  down  in  the  pillow,  made  her  heart 
ache  more  than  the  most  vehement  burst 
of  sorrow  could  have  done.  At  last  she 
said: 

"  Shall  I  bring  you  Ellie  and  the  baby  ? " 
But  Willy  shook  his  head ;  he  did  not 


184  WILLY  COLLINS. 

want  to  see  them  now.  The  next  day  when 
he  sat  up  in  his  bed,  for  a  little  while,  again 
the  lady  said  the  same,  and  Willy  nodded. 

When  Ellie  came  in,  in  her  brown 
gingham  frock  and  long  blue  apron,  looking 
rosy  and  healthy  as  a  country  girl,  Willy 
hardly  knew  her.  And  the  baby,  though  still 
a  peaked  and  sad-faced  thing,  was  wonder- 
fully changed  since  the  night  Mr.  Suther- 
land found  her  tied  up  in  the  rocking-chair. 
The  hospital  had  saved  her,  as  it  is  saving 
many  others ;  and  poor  little  Willy  had  to 
thank  it,  under  Heaven,  for  his  continued 
life. 

Mr.  Sutherland,  from  the  time  that  he 
found  it  such  a  welcome  home  -for  his  poor 
little  deserted  flock,' devoted  himself  to  its 
enlargement  and  extension.  Some  time  of 
every  day  he  gave  to  it;  and  Willy  and 
Ellie  looked  for  him  with  longing  every 


WILL  T  COLLINS.  1  8  5 

day.  Willy  learned  to  love  the  hospital 
chapel  very  much,  but  the  clear  old  church 
was  still  his  home ;  and  sometimes  on  Sun- 
day afternoons,  Mr.  Sutherland  would  get 
leave  for  him  to  come  down  there  with 
Ellie,  and  sit  in  the  pew  with  the  children. 
It  made  him  feel  strange  and  sad  to  look  at 
the  great  north  window  that  he  had  gazed 
at  so  wistfully  in  the  dark,  unhappy  time 
that  seemed  so  long  ago ;  but  he  loved  it 
still,  and  never  forgot  it  through  all  his 
life. 

Healthy,  happy  little  Ellie  had  not  so 
much  to  forget  as  her  brother  had ;  but 
both  of  them  soon  lost  the  recollection,  as 
far  as  it  was  really  painful,  of  their  miser- 
able infancy,  and  became  contented,  simple- 
hearted,  and  religious  children,  under  the 
safe,  cheerful,  and  holy  influences  of  their 
new  home. 


A     NEW     NOVEL 

.BY  THE  AUTHOR  OF  "  RUTLEDGE." 

RICHARD  VANDERMARCK 

BY  MRS.  S.  S.  HARRIS, 

Author  of  " Rutledge,"  "  The  Sutherland!,"  "  Louie's  Last  Term,"  "Round- 
hearts,"  "  A  Rosary  for  Lent"  &*c.,  &>c. 

i  vol.  121110,  cloth,  $1.50. 

The  author  of  "  Rutledge"  breaks  a  silence  of  seven  years  with 
a  story  quite  as  bright  and  vivacious  in  style,  as  dramatic  in  its 
situations,  and  as  thoroughly  true  to  life  as  anything  she  has  pre- 
viously written.  A  clever  girl  with  the  "  dangerous  gift,"  and  with 
no  end  of  faults  and  weaknesses, — pretty,  selfish,  unstable, 
womanly, — tells  her  own  story,  and  in  a  way  entirely  feminine,  and 
so  true  to  life  that  she  seems  to  be  talking,  instead  of  writing, — 
about  herself,  those  who  loved  her  and  whom  she  loved,  and  the 
various  perplexing  entanglements  in  which  she  consequently 
became  involved.  The  characters  are  few  and  clearly  defined,  the 
plot  not  at  all  involved,  the  situations  and  incidents  always  graphic, 
and  often  told  with  real  dramatic  power  and  a  genuine  pathos 
which  combine  to  make  the  story  one  that  will  be  universally  read 
with  thorough  satisfaction  and  pleasure. 


ALSO  NEW  EDITIONS,  IN  HANDSOME  STYLES, 


RUTLEDGE. 

FRANK  WARRINGTON. 

LOUIE'S  LAST  TERM. 


THE  SUTHERLANDS. 
ST.   PHILIPS. 
ROUNDHEARTS. 


A  ROSARY  FOR  LENT. 


3 

A  NEW  AND  VALUABLE  SEfilES 

For  Readers  of  all  Ages  and  for  the  School  and  Family  Library, 


TRAVEL,    EXPLORATION, 

AND  ADVENTURE. 

EDITED  BY 

BAYARD    TAYLOR. 

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WONDERS       OF       ELECTRICITY. 

Edited  by  Dr.  J.  W.  ARMSTRONG,  Presi- 
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N.  Y.  In  December. 


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WONDERS  OF  ENGRAVING.  (34 
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For  specimen  Illustration,  see  page  4. 

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WONDERS  OF  NATURE. 

THE  HUMAN  BODY 
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